SERPENTINE
by cupcakeriot
Summary: The albatross of destiny is one that leeches at those who bear its weight, unforgiving and inevitable. As the Last Heir of a Great Clan, that burden is especially hefty. As the Heir Apparent of the Ruling House, that mantel is particularly daunting. But Jörmungandr will not be denied fate and the connection between mundane and magical must be satisfied.
1. Prologue

Roll me on your frozen fields,

Break my bones to watch them heal.

Drown me in your thirsty veins,

Where I'll watch and I'll wait, and pray for the rain.

Curl like smoke, and breathe again,

Down your throat, inside your ribs,

Through your spine, and every nerve,

Where I watch, and I wait, and yield to the hurt.

And if you don't believe the sun will rise,

Stand alone and greet the coming night,

In the last remaining light.

The seven moons, and the seven suns.

Heaven waits, for those who run down your winter, and underneath your waves,

Where you watch and wait, and pray for the day.

And if you don't believe the sun will rise,

Stand alone and greet the coming night,

In the last remaining light.

\- The Last Remaining Light, Audioslave

* * *

 **Prologue**

The end of the world begins, as it is destined, with tragedy.

As the Crone of Sassa shuffles down to the valley, her eyes catch on the smoking red-glow embers of the fallen Clan's valley with something akin to pity. The magnitude of the destruction is breathtaking, an entire bloodline wiped out in the single most horrific action that Crone had ever to bear witness. Where once a longhouse of ash wood and vine had proudly stood, there is naught but smoke and ash; where once the most gifted, if not revered, Clan in all of her country had lived, there is naught but charred remains that are unrecognizable. It is disturbing, to utter the least, but the Crone does not slow her steady progress, hip twinging in protest of her pace.

The Crone is not, nor has she ever been, an empathetic woman. Crones are meant to be wise and, weathered with age as she is, the burden of wisdom had ultimately led to a cold sort of indifference that hardly quakes at the sight of such a massacre. Not even the scent of burning human flesh ceases her progress down the steep hill.

She had, after all, known for quite some time that these events would happen, if not in this exact manner. She had tasted the travesty in the winds, had waited for the tides to change with grim anticipation. There were very few things that Maidens, Mothers, and Crones could not see.

The infant was one of those things.

Tuning her ear to the squall of a baby, cries loud enough to muffle the crackling-pop of logs set ablaze, the Crone frowns as she approaches one of her Maidens that she had sent before herself to survey the damage. In her old age, she knew she would never reach the House in time to find survivors - not that she had truly expected to find any - but she had thought that this Maiden in particular was too soft-hearted and took advantage of the opportunity to toughen the girl up. And yet, the plan seemed to have backfired, much to the Crone's bewildered astonishment.

Yes, the babe is a surprise.

The Maiden, a virgin girl no older than fourteen, cradles the baby in thin arms, the soot on her face doing little to hide the bewildered expression in her Seer-blue eyes set high above her freckled cheekbones. "She was among the timber," says the girl, nodding toward the crying infant, rocking the poor thing with an unsteady cadence that belies the clear maternal instinct flooding the girl's veins. "There are no others. Just…just the baby."

 _Indeed_ , thinks the Crone, gazing at the burning skeleton of the Clan's compound with a steady sharpness. There is seldom left in the flames; finely crafted architecture ruined, artifacts of the Solvej line forever lost, and only a babe left to tell the tale. An undoubtedly violent flame had crumbled through generations of Solvej magic, which the Crone knew to be exceptionally strong, if not near-impossible to control - and even still, the fire rages and ravages, a roar of heat that thunders in the Crone's ears. Firelight dances in the dark of the night, illuminating the sweetly rounded features of the infant - and highlighting the striking lack of soot staining her fair skin.

Somehow, the baby had not been touched by the fire that destroyed her bloodline. Or, perhaps, the baby had managed to remain undetected as her family was slaughtered by blade, and _then_ survived the flame. It would be impossible to ascertain, even after the fire choked itself - the infant could not talk and no Seer could See the past.

A mystery, then.

"The child is unmarked," observes the Crone, thoughtful. It wasn't unheard of that children, particularly infants born to the Clans, were resilient, but the Crone had never heard tale of any child that survived such a fire and certainly no child so young. She found it peculiar, even as a Seer who had Seen many peculiar events in her long life.

Perhaps it was especially interesting because she had known the infant's family and was in the odd position of bearing particular knowledge about the babe - specifically, the knowledge that the child had not yet shown signs of bearing any of the Clan's gifts.

And yet, the babe lived to scream and wail, lightening-orchid eyes eerily bright in the darkness, brighter even than the destructive flames that had made the infant into an orphan. The babe looks directly at the Crone and whimpers, reaching a small-fingered hand forward, grasping at air with her face scrunched in upset. She cries louder as the Crone does nothing but stare, perturbed. There is a _glint_ in the baby's eyes, a spectacular intelligence tempered by sedated peace, even as she expresses her discontent and confusion. It reminds the Crone of a vision she'd had long ago in a dream - the first Sight the Crone had ever experienced, truly.

The Crone purses her lips at the whimpering creature.

The Maiden hushes the child, licking her lips nervously, her attention continually torn between the girl and the furious blaze. "How can this be? How could this happen?"

"It is the times," remarks the Crone, clasping her hands together in contemplation. She is certain in her knowledge, in this relationship of cause and effect. "Our dear King all but signed the Solvej Clan's death warrants in light of that dreadful decree. It is unfortunate that this Clan was the first, as I suspect once news of their demise reaches other Clans that precautions will be made. The Clan of Solvej had no clear forewarning and it left them vulnerable."

Or rather, the _Crone_ had no clear forewarning - just the Sight and the tremulous inkling that wickedness was fast approaching. Not a thing specific or particularly useful. But she had long since dispatched any feelings of guilt for the inability to stop events. The albatross of the Seer was to witness, not to change.

"But the other augurs," says the Maiden in confusion. "There have been other deaths."

"Aye," replies the Crone. There had been deaths but they had been clumsy murders fueled by passionate ignorance as augurs traveled the countryside to reach safe havens like Sassa. There had not been news of another deceased augur since the Clans had finalized their relocation, and _that_ had been a handful of years ago, right before the birth of the first-born of the House of Elric. The situation had been considerably more calm since; the mundane were terribly easy to distract, especially in light of good news. "But no genocides such as this. And, I fear, none to follow."

The truth of her words rattles through her chest. A sober realization - indeed, it was genocide, and it was genocide of a feared Clan only because of the power that linked to the Clan, power that often manifested with great and terrible abilities. The Clan of Solvej in particular was a source of wariness for augur and mundane alike; while quite possibly being the oldest of the Clans, they were also a Clan intricately linked to dubious magic that seemed so much darker than the magic of other bloodlines. The Crone saw no sense in fearing the rumored gifts of the Clan, as her own gift was Spirit itself, but then the Crone had been raised in the Old Ways and tutored by the Old Religion, both of which were dwindling as the mundane populations grew. Their own King was of mundane origin, his line untouched by the Old Ones.

The mundane would always fear what they could not understand, this the Crone knew with absolute certainty. That was why their kin were pushed to the outermost territories. That was why this tragedy occurred.

She shifts her focus to the babe, tracking fire-lit tears down smooth cheeks with her wizened mouth pulled into a frown. She did not understand how the child survived, but she knew better than to _fear_ it, just as she also knew that none could know the true story of how the baby remained living after the massacre of her Clan. In all likelihood, the babe was probably gifted beyond compare, possibly _because_ of this tragedy. Fate was self-fulfilling in that way.

As she had survived, it was obviously imperative that the babe should grow into a woman. The Crone had been aware of _that_ truth since the babe was born. But the struggle of living the life so destined for the child would be harrowing and the Crone felt a sense of concern for the ugliest side of human nature sure to rear its head as the girl aged. With a sigh, feeling the weight of destiny on her shoulders, the Crone comes to a decision.

"We will tell the others that she was found near the well," she murmurs, casting a glance to the perimeter of wet soil around the stonewell that prevented fire from reaching the structure. A flimsy story, but one that was believable enough that questions would not be asked by those who would dare question the Crone. "None must ever know that she did not burn. So mote it be."

"So mote it be," the Maiden agrees breathlessly, Seer-blue eyes white with the uprising of the magic of the Old Ones, a sign that her tongue would be forever tied in the events of this night.

A secret sealed, the Crone's shoulders sag. The infant, as if sensing the ancient power shifting around her, grows silent, wide orchid eyes and soundless attention fixed on the brittle Crone. The intelligence in the gaze unsettles the Crone, though she doesn't let it show. Rather, she studies the baby closely, noting dismally that the babe's ears were ever-so-slightly pointed. Unmistakable evidence of at least _some_ of the Clan's bloodline was particularly strong in the girl, though the Crone would rather spare the child her inevitable fate.

"Let us pray that she is more her mother than her father."

 **oOo**

It is a prayer unheard.

 **oOo**

The girl is one of astounding beauty. It seems as if each year passes only to grace the child with more striking features - rosy cheeks, hair like starlight, and eyes ever-so aware of the cruelty of the village. The Crone, like the girl, is not blind to the orphan's treatment, nor is she deaf to the rumors bestowed upon the child as the only survivor of the Solvej Clan.

 _The Cursed Child_ , the villagers whisper as she passes through the streets, timid and dressed in reluctantly donated rags. _The most evil seed of the most evil Clan._

The Crone could do nothing to sway the murmurings - it was the curse of human nature to think the worst of tragic events, especially in light of the Crone's correct prediction that it would only be the Solvej Clan to suffer such a massacre. The other Clans in Sassa had indeed taken extreme precautions and the King had issued grave consequences to any caught in such a cold-blooded act. It was too little too late.

Under the rule of the well-meaning good King of the House of Elric, the newly-minted liege had incited unintended violence with his proclamation that all pagans of the Old Religion be sequestered to the farthest reaches of his rule. The consequences of such a decree had led to the untimely demise of the once-sacred and noble Clan of Solvej. An unfortunate series of events, to be sure, but nonetheless events that are still vulnerable to the worst of humanity.

 _The Solvej Clan must have been evil_ , she has heard the villagers reason on occasion, hushed conversations in the open market, over steaming cups of tea, across the drying lines of freshly scrubbed laundry. _Surely that is why they were the only Clan to be eradicated. And any other augurs who die, well, surely they must have been evil, too, though not as evil as the Solvej Clan._

It was foolish nonsense, if anyone asked the Crone. Fretful and cowardly. Heedless and tactless gossip. The Crone had been alive long enough to be privy to the truly ancient power that flowed through the blood of the Solvej Clan, had even been aware of a few of their secrets due to her own gift - and she did not think the Clan any more evil than herself. Powerful, of course, and misunderstood. But not evil.

The Crone knew there was no true evil in the world - not yet.

But she could not force the village of Sassa to understand that. She could not force the other Clans in Sassa to see reason beyond their own ignorance. She could do nothing but watch as the girl grew, each year more beautiful than the last, each year more solemn than the year prior. She could do nothing but keep a watchful eye on the girl and wait for the girl's fate to be sealed.

There is a certain kind of strength that the Crone admires and the girl has this strength in spades.

Still the Crone prays that this strength grows as reliably as the girl's beauty.

 **oOo**

It is a prayer answered.

* * *

 **A/N: If you were reading this story when it was still classed , then my apologies for the removal without notice. I appreciate the reviews, favorites, and follows for this story when it was pinging as Original Fiction. Thank you. I hope that you come back and relive these chapters with the translated Twilight names and continue to enjoy the story!**

 **That said, to new readers, this is my normal schtick - I have a story that I've written with original characters and I have simply changed the names to match the Twilight fandom. You may notice this in the rather unique character descriptions and details that are embedded in this story. The characters will look different because that's how I wrote them originally. The characters will behave different because that's how I wrote them orginally. The situations will be different - because, yes, that's how I wrote them originally. If that's a problem for you, then I am sorry but I will not be changing this.**

 **As it is - welcome to the story! Buckle in! I'll be updating a few times a week until I catch up to the backlog, so be prepared for a binge!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**  
 **~cupakeriot (Rae)**


	2. One: The Cursed Child

**One – The Cursed Child**

Isobela is certain of three absolute facts by the time she is old enough to comprehend them - and she is not, nor will she ever be, naïve enough to believe that these facts would ever change. She had long ago concluded that time was both the only change and the only constant, and that all else would forever remain static.

The first is that she is alone. She is an orphan, an unwanted burden to her village, and the last evidence that her bloodline ever existed. Her days are marked by the passage of silent hours, her nights far from the comforting embrace of hearth and home. She lives alone, removed from the village proper, in a hovel that is partially built underground near the deep valley where her family perished; the food she eats is scarce and coveted; and the clothes on her back are made of more holes than fabric. Thoughts tumble through her head that she shares with no single soul, not even the Crone who peers at her pensively each time Isobela swallows her pride to ask the Seers for whatever scraps they can spare after her foraging proves fruitless. She is as alone in the world as the world is alone in the universe.

The second is that she is despised. Hated. Demonized for events that were far beyond her control. The villagers of Sassa turn blind eyes to the cruelty that Isobela is awarded; they ignore the stones thrown by her peers, they openly gossip about her strange stillness while she is in ear sight, and they sneer that she is a _cursed child_ to her face. Isobela's first true memory is the local butcher shutting the doors of his shop, claiming that her presence would only taint his goods. Her second is of the horrified gasp of onlookers as her wild magic fueled by hunger lashes out, boiling and burning to cinder the butcher's meat as it was held in his hands. The memories that follow are achingly similar and it does not take long before Isobela understands that she is loathed as much for her existence as she is loathed for her uncontrollable latent abilities.

But the last fact is the most complex. Isobela is _not_ mundane. She is the Last Heir of Clan Solvej, the last remainder of the Clan of Strength. She is an augur in her own right, though her birthright flounders and flickers as she remains self-taught. But it is also this fact that has caused the first two - for if she had not been augur, her family would not have been massacred. If her family was mundane, if her Clan was a House, then they would be alive and Isobela would be neither alone or despised. If her birthright, in whatever capacity it chose to manifest, had never been guaranteed by her blood, then she would not be the Last Heir.

She does not see any path to change these facts, so she is forced to accept them - lonely, loathed, and last.

 **oOo**

The village of Sassa, huddled beneath the shadow of snow-capped mountains of aborigine stone, does not clear the remains of Isobela's ancestral home. Rather, the skeleton of the longhouse where Isobela was born serves as a never-ceasing reminder of all that she had lost. As she grows from toddler to child to adolescent, Isobela often finds her feet carrying her to the burnt-out husk of her Clan, her eyes tracing the charred wood and shriveled greenery with distant apathy. Isobela mourns that which was stolen from her, grieves that which she does not remember, and as the years pass, ivy returns to climb over the charred wood, grass tall enough to hide in covering the worst scars of the Earth. The destroyed home becomes a eulogy, a bizarre type of comfort.

Death had been there, but Death had not truly conquered, not if the Life of the Earth returned in such abundance. The deep valley tucked between springs so clear that there seems to be two skies and trees so tall they touch the clouds is a beacon of hope, a place of solitude where no villager dares step foot.

It is at this memorial that Isobela learns the most about her past - or rather, the past of her world and the past of her family.

Before the Maiden that nursed her as a babe - Rosemary - became a Mother, when there was still time for Isobela in a Seer's busy life, Isobela was gifted with precious recounted tales of her parent's life before the massacre. The stories were the only links to Isobela's past and her only context for understanding what exactly had caused the tragedy that befell her Clan. Rosemary is a gifted storyteller, a highly coveted trait among Seers, and paints pictures in Isobela's mind of the noble man that was Isobela's father and of the odd nomad who was his wife and of the conflicted world in which she was born.

" _He led many of the Clans in the coup against the old King,"_ Rosemary once said, eyes vacant and lighter-than-sky blue, as if she could See the events unfolding before her vary eyes, though that was impossible for Seers to do. " _You must understand that the old King was a tyrant and that to overthrow a King is a great crime. But the old King had a disowned nephew, someone who was royal and beloved by the commoners and who was wise to recognize the power of the Clans. The old King was fearful of augurs, but his punishment for those who stepped out of line was often deadly. Until this nephew, our current good King Elric, appealed to the Clans to end his uncle's tyrannical rule, the Clans had been content enough to practice the Old Ways in whatever way they could. It was a half-life for augurs._

 _"Your father believed in this nephew of a tyrant and tirelessly gathered only the strongest of forces to dethrone the old King so that he might be replaced by a King who respected the Clans enough to leave them be. And for a while, after the war when peace was settling across the land, there was no conflict between the mundane and the augur…Ignorance breeds fear, Isobela_ ," Rosemary claimed, brow puckered as she willed Isobela to understand the gravity of her words. " _After the birth of the good King's son, there were rumblings across our nation, and conflicts between the mundane and the augur began to rise. You must understand that the good King was trapped with the choice before him. Though the Clans had helped him rise to power, the mundane far outnumbered the augur and the security of his rule was being threatened. And our King is mundane. Your father understood that his decision was the best compromise the King could offer - give the mundane peace of mind and hopefully ensure the protection of the augur by segregating his kingdom._

 _"Sassa has always been the home of your Clan, even in the Old times, and your father was compassionate enough to offer this valley to migrating Clans, to any who passed through, even the Seers, who are neither augur nor mundane. This is how he met your mother, who had been a wanderer from the sister islands….I do not think any expected the violence after this treaty, lest of all your parents…."_

Isobela is thrilled with the knowledge that her father had been loyal to the king, certain in her childish innocence that this meant her father was a _good_ man - better, even, than the good King Elric, she was sure. Stories of her father were always more abundant than her mother, though Isobela did not mind. Her father was her hero, and her mother her aspiration.

She misses them. Or rather, she misses the idea of family and covets these shared memories in the deepest recesses of her heart for safe keeping. And although Isobela is not a Seer, this knowledge does not stop her from desperately squinting her eyes before she dreams, hoping for a glimpse of a familial face that never comes. She stops when it proves futile and never tries again, contenting herself to the fake memories she makes up about her lost family.

It is enough. In the absence of tangible warmth in her life, these dreams are enough to keep the ice from her heart.

 **oOo**

Isobela is not a child prone to tears - but she sobs with chest-heaving grief when the bird she had been steadily nursing to health dies during the night. A broken wing should not have also broken the sprit of the animal, but it had.

 _"_ She knew she would not fly again," says the Crone when Isobela takes the sun-feathered creature to the House of the Seers. The bird is big enough to fill Isobela's hands. The lack of breath is greatly disturbing to her and she sniffles, wiping the tears on her cheek against the rough wool of the spring dress Rosemary made for her. "There was nothing you could do."

 _There was nothing you could do._

Isobela instinctively rejects this idea.

 **oOo**

Exhaling through her teeth, Isobela winces as she carefully cleans the blood from the scrapes on her shoulder where sharp rocks had bruised and cut into her skin through the fabric of her threadbare dress. She bites her lip, rubbing a cloth of cold water until the angry blood blooming beneath the surface is clear in the light of day; these new bruises join the mottling yellow-green-blues of older contusions.

She would have to take a different route tomorrow. Perhaps _through_ the forest, this time, rather than around it. She hadn't tried that, yet, and even now was hesitant to attempt such a journey, as the forest was lovely, deep, and dark - but also dangerous, a looming presence around the edges of Sassa with magic sparking off the highest-reaching branches.

The side of her head feels swollen just above her ear where one rock had rebounded off her skull; when she twists her neck, her ear whistles and throbs and discourages her from attempting to stand, which is unfortunate because autumn has brought cold air into her simple accommodations. Isobela is cold. Cold and hungry, with her stomach clawing meanly at her spine.

She sighs, tired. If she crawled across the room instead of walked, she could probably kindle the embers of coal and crunch her teeth around the bitter berries that she had managed to keep in her basket during her flee earlier. But the effort required to _move_ seems too vast.

Isobela forces her body into action anyway, grimacing at the itchy pull of healing skin. Kneeling beside the hearth, Isobela selects a single berry, savoring the burst of flavor on her tongue before she swallows, feeling more ravenous than before. She has learned, however, that eating slower would trick her body into feeling full, and paces herself as she pokes at the coals within the hearth until a modest fire wards the chill from the air.

 _"So cold_."

Surprised, Isobela drops a berry, searching over her shoulder for the owner of the voice that had whispered past her aching ear. She frowns. There is nobody there; her door and window are firmly locked and it is quiet in the little valley of her home. Ever since the last time rotten food had battered the planks of her door - a particularly cruel insult to her shrunken stomach - Isobela had always been careful to keep herself locked safely inside and even her magic had managed some form of warding to at least alert Isobela if someone approached her home.

" _Bitter chills,_ " says the voice, distinctly feminine and - small. Youthful. " _This one hates the chills."_

Isobela stands, alarmed, the dirty sole of her foot squashing purplish juice from the flattened berry beneath her weight. " _Who is there_?" she demands and then immediately snaps her mouth shut, absolutely bewildered by the odd slithering voice that had escaped her throat. She had never made _that_ sound before, not in any of her ten winters. She swallows with some difficulty, anxiety ratcheting her heart rate up as seconds pass between her voice and the voice of the person she can not see.

There is some magic that conceals one from sight, she knows, but she's also heard the Seers mutter that hardly anyone can actually _perform_ such magic. Anyone who managed to do so much be extraordinarily powerful - and far more dangerous than the Cursed Child of Sassa! Isobela wouldn't stand a chance -

" _A speaker_?" questions the voice.

Casting her eyes about, Isobela examines all of the smallest shadows of her underground shelter with the minimal light afforded by the hearth. Her cot is neatly made with rough, gray fabric, feather pillow pathetically limp as it sits squished between wall and hay-stuffed mattress. Directly under the window, the rackety table pushed against the opposite wall is neatly organized with a single set of blunt utensils, a roundish flat plate of unrefined clay she'd made herself, a similar bowl of collected herbs she was learning to study under the distanced tutelage of the Crone, and an oddly colored snake.

A _snake_.

Isobela flinches away, a surprised shill noise escaping her throat as the creature tilts it's triangular head at her, forked tongue flickering in rapid tastes of the air. The snake is a small thing, slender and brightly colored, no longer than the length of Isobela's forearm, and it sits in a loose coil on her table, almost casual if such a thing were possible for a _snake_.

Swallowing thickly, Isobela ignores the thrum of fear in her veins. She does not know how the snake entered her home, but she _does_ know that her deceased Clan was rumored to commune with snakes - it was, evidently, part of the reason the Clan of Solvej had been selected as a target. By their very nature, snakes were believed to be callous, mysterious, and self-serving creatures and while Isobela certainly had no reason to suspect any different, she could tell that the snake was just as startled to hear Isobela speak as Isobela was to hear the snake.

Deep down, Isobela thought that perhaps the snake was sent to her to cure the wretched loneliness she felt each night. The Seers did often utter that magic worked in curious, unpredictable ways. There wasn't anything more curious that _talking to a snake_.

" _I-I am Isobela,_ " the girl stutters, tuning her ears away from the strange hissing of her own voice to concentrate on the whispery hiss of the snake. Summoning any ounce of bravery to even attempt conversation with a being that may - or may not - be sentient _and_ poisonous pushes far beyond the bounds of Isobela's comfort zone. In the back of her mind, she thinks of her brave father, and continues to curl her tongue, determination in the jut of her jaw. " _Can I assist you…?"_

" _A speaker…a hatchling speaker,"_ says the snake, thoughtful, the muted plum tongue flicking out once again as the snake seems to judge Isobela on the spot. Isobela is unnerved, but holds her posture, just as she imagines her father might have done. The snake, seemingly coming to a conclusion, slithers forward an inch, stretching that slim body across the table. " _This one is also a hatchling._ "

That certainly explained the tiny size, though the snake - definitely a female - was still intimidating. If Isobela wasn't mistaken, the snake was venomous. She was appropriately wary as she took a careful step forward. _"Why are you h-here_?"

The snake's tiny head droops. " _This one is alone_ ," claims the snake and though Isobela had not known snakes could even have _moods_ , the listless inflection of the snake is rather obvious, as is the snake's body language _. "This one was not strong enough. This one is cold…"_

Isobela's heart throbs painfully, a breathless clench of her lungs. Another just like her - one other being in the limited world of Sassa that could possibly relate to Isobela's plight. The snake is young, but perhaps smaller, more thin, than she is supposed to be, just like Isobela. And just like Isobela, the snake seems to have suffered some amount of hardship, though probably as the runt of her siblings rather than the curse of the town. It mattered not to Isobela _how_ the snake came into her home as she was bound and determined to make the creature welcome. Anything to cure the lonesome twinge behind her ribs - and Isobela, who had taken up the hobby of rescuing any injured animal she came across, was willing to extend that same courtesy to this snake.

Especially because the snake could talk _back_. Such an extraordinary thing!

 _"This is my home_ ," declares Isobela, frowning as the snake recoils at her words, as if expecting to be thrown out on her tail. Reaching a hand forward, Isobela offers her palm to the snake, dipping her hand low enough to graze the edge of the rickety table. " _I am willing to share my home with you, if you would like._ "

" _Truly, hatchling speaker?_ " asks the snake, obviously dubious to the offer.

Did she wonder if Isobela would make her into that heinous soup she'd overheard the shopkeepers speaking about recently? Isobela didn't know how to cook anything more complicated than tea leaves and she'd never developed a taste for meat, not that she'd been presented overmuch with meat in the first place. Abstractly, she knew that snakes mostly ate meat, but wondered if she might persuade the snake to abstain from animals as Isobela was so inclined. It was doubtful, but not enough to prevent Isobela from making her offer.

" _My hearth is your hearth, snake,"_ replies the young girl, steady in both her conviction and generosity. Having been ostracized herself, Isobela had once vowed to never treat another in the same manner as it did not sit right with her; this was a vow that was doubly important when applied to those who were more vulnerable than herself. _"I ask only your name and that you not bite me_."

" _This one would never bite a speaker_!" hisses the snake, scandalized - much to the mixed relief and amusement of Isobela. " _This one does not yet have a name. The speaker may help choose._ "

Raising her brows at the snake, Isobela waits until the creature slips into her palm, pebbled scales absorbing the heat from Isobela's palm with a shiver. Cupping her hands, Isobela brings the snake closer to her face to better examine the color and design of the tiny beast in her hands; the snake's color is curiously bright, with scales that distinctly remind Isobela of tangy summer fruits. For a snake, Isobela thought the summer-scaled creature had a rather strong personality and that when the snake was older it would be quite confident. Willful, even.

" _Toree_ ," she decides, stroking her finger over the snake's triangular head. "For the many victories and triumphs you will surely possess."

The snake's tongue flickers out, tasting the thin skin of Isobela's wrist in contemplation before decisively slithering from Isobela's palm and winding around her forearm. " _This one will be called Toree,_ " agrees the snake in a tone of clear delight. " _Toree shall remain with the hatchling speaker."_

Isobela laughs, joy bubbling in her chest. A companion, finally. Maybe a friend. Not a polite one, but she didn't think she could ask Toree to change her nature, just as Isobela could not be asked to change her own. In any case, Isobela's natural timidity would surely be balanced by the snake's boldness, which Isobela thought was suitable.

After all, the Crone was always stressing the importance of balance.

 **oOo**

 _"I am too young to hunt,"_ confides Toree, winding around the bark-like floor of Isobela's home while Isobela tends to the hearth. She finds that the need to take care of another has made her take better care of herself; though it requires more effort to keep her kindling stores abundant, Isobela's tiny space is very rarely cold, even in the bitter frost of winter.

Mirthful, Isobela watches as Toree investigates each corner of their home, a routine that the snake had adopted over the autumn once she discovered that Isobela was frequently a target of unkind treatment, often in the form of vermin released by the villagers. The meager collection of food that Isobela was able to keep had disappeared twice for this reason and Toree, who was less willing to go hungry, had taken it upon herself to monitor for invasions of the same nature. Her excuse had been logical - eventually, Toree would have to bite _something_ and as she had no other snake to teach her, learning the skill of her venomous fangs was to be self-taught, somewhat like Isobela's own daunting task of teaching herself magic.

It was slow-going for both girl and snake - at best - but at least Toree was able to practice on _something_.

" _There is nothing here,_ " Toree announces moments later. Patrols were very short between the small size of the one-room home and Toree's keen sense of smell. The snake quickly makes her way back to Isobela and the hearth, eagerly edging close to the warmth of the fire. Toree did not like winter, though it was likely other snakes felt the same way, as they typically slept through the coldest months; Isobela was not sure why _Toree_ did not hibernate, but she assumed the snake was healthy enough, if not a little odd.

 _"Thank you for checking anyway,_ " says Isobela, carefully opening the burlap bag she carried on her hip. Setting the bag before Toree, she watches as the snake darts inside, quickly capturing a lone grasshopper Isobela had managed to catch earlier in the forest. Isobela's dinner is similarly sparse, a mere handful of nuts and stale bread that had been thrown at her door the day before. Not enough to fill her stomach, but enough to prevent the terrible cramping that keeps her up at night. She is always more concerned about Toree who she thought had a much more difficult time fending for herself.

From inside the bag, Toree grumbles, " _One day, this one will catch a mouse_ and _be big enough to eat it_."

Isobela giggles, amused by the snake and delighted that Toree was already well on her way to becoming a snake of quite healthy size. Already over the few months Toree had been her companion, the snake had grown in length and was far less slender than before, much to Isobela's great relief.

She only hoped her efforts to take care of the snake would continue to be as successful. It was wonderful to have a friend.

 **oOo**

"I See your companion, girl," says the Crone by way of greeting as Isobela enters the longhouse of the Seers, the sharp scent of lemongrass incense wafting through the air amid low stacks of goose-down pillows and hand-weaved blankets dyed in deep jewel tones.

The Crone was an abrupt kind of woman, one who did not dally with any sort of nonsense and preferred to strike at the heart of any issue, all of which Isobela was accustomed to, especially after her tutoring in the healing arts had begun. Though she was quite old, the Crone had aged with a simple grace, and in the sun, it was easy enough to mistake Isobela's silvery-blonde for the Crone's white hair; privately, Isobela rather thought that she and the Crone looked similar, maybe similar enough to be mistaken for kin if none had known any better.

Everyone in Sassa knew better, though.

Quickly, Isobela looks down at her arm where the long sleeves of her dress had been pulled down to cover her fair skin - and more importantly, to conceal Toree, who had insisted on _observing this lesson the hatchling insists upon_. Isobela had acquiesced to her friend's demand, rather bemused. If Toree _wanted_ to watch Isobela learn the healing arts, then Isobela didn't see any issues, so long as she took care to keep Toree out of sight from the villagers, who had emphatically expressed their extreme dislike for her affinity with snakes once it had been discovered that Isobela had the serpent speech. Isobela took special care to keep her snake safe as soon as she realized the danger Toree might face - but she couldn't see the harm in keeping Toree with her for at least _one_ day.

She had not anticipated the Crone _knowing_ that Toree was wrapped around her arm. Isobela thought she'd been rather clever to wear a dress with longer sleeves, even with the hotter weather - but it was silly to think she could fool a Seer.

Flushing in embarrassment, Isobela tentatively tugs on her sleeve. "I can take her back home," she offers, hesitant. The Crone was difficult to read at the best of times, seeming to have a mask of indifferences mastered, and Isobela was leery of angering one of the only people who had ever extended her a kindness. If the Crone did not want Toree in the home of the Seers, then Isobela had little else to do but return Toree back to her secluded valley.

Thankfully, the Crone waves the offer away blithely. "Nonsense. I've heard that some snakes can assist healers and it seems to me that you've found such a creature. You might be a healer yet."

Elated, Isobela smiles in response. She had been aware that other augurs used snakes in their healing on other continents, as such odd news was always quick to reach other nations - and she had taken her affinity for snakes as a blessing, in particular because of her budding passion for healing. Not knowing If Toree would be of any assistance in healing mattered not, as she was a friend before she was a tool.

"You think Toree can help?" Isobela clarifies, sinking to sit on her knees in front of the Crone, back straight in the posture that the Crone had first taught her. She eyes the materials gathered around the old Seer, which are mostly odd-looking plants and a pestle and mortar that Isobela had only once worked with, realizing that the day's lesson would be about healing potions and salves. Isobela was particularly talented in the identification of herbs and flowers used in healing, but putting them together in the right combinations was a challenge. Though not the most patient of teachers, the Crone was determined to teach lessons until they finally sunk into Isobela's mind. Judging by the unfamiliar plants gathered, Isobela must have been ready to move onto the next level of training.

" _Of course this one can assist, hatchling,"_ Toree claims haughtily, tightening around Isobela's thin bicep.

 _"I did not mean you were incapable._ "

Toree ignores her, much to Isobela's amusement. Such a very odd snake, indeed.

For her part, the Crone watches the exchange stonily, before extending her hand. "Let me see this snake," she says abruptly. "I must determine if it is magical."

Isobela swiftly rolls up her sleeve and coaxes Toree into her hand, holding her before the Crone for inspection, though she does not hand her beloved friend over. "Toree is magical," Isobela says, confident in her estimation.

"And how have you deduced this?"

Scratching the underside of Toree's jaw, Isobela responds decisively. "She has responded to my accidental magic," she confides, hiding her own alarm at the memory. It had been nearly two weeks prior and on a day where Isobela had felt completely wretched and out of sorts, disturbed enough by the taunting of one of her peers that her magic had blown a boulder clear into the river near the valley. While the level of unexpected magic had been terrifying for Isobela, it had inspired Toree's scales to shimmer iridescently, an affect that had not yet faded from the snake, who had also expressed that she felt more energized than before, even in last dregs of winter.

As she explains this to the Crone, she does not miss the look of contemplation that crosses the old woman's face, her Seer-blue eyes alight with a secret. "And the snake is venomous?"

Isobela nods, having witnessed the strength of Toree's strike performed on vermin and the swift reaction from Toree's bite. "Very much so, I think."

"Has she bitten you?"

Isobela graces the Crone with a strange look, part surprised and part disturbed by the very idea. "Of course not," says the girl. "Toree would never bite me."

 _"This one would never harm a speaker!"_ Toree agrees, hissing at the Crone in offense.

The Crone's pensive expression eases ever-so-slightly, though she leans forward, looking at Isobela with great intensity. "I've heard of healers on the continent using snakes in healing and I've heard that the Clan of Solvej allowed their familiars to bite them for increasing their strength, but I have never heard of a magical healer allowing a magical snake to bite them. Regardless of bloodline, perhaps it is wise that you have kept your blood pure of your snake's venom." The Crone hesitates, speculative. "Though I wonder what might happen…."

And inexplicably, Isobela begins to wonder, too.

She doesn't realize that the Crone had planted the idea in her head for a reason until she is much older.


	3. Two: The Knight of Elric

**Two – The Knight of Elric**

Heart pounding as loud and swift as a blacksmith's hammer against an anvil, Edvard tucks his body into a roll, metal-clad back pressing against frost-bitten ground until he finds his feet beneath his body again, shield raising to protect his front automatically - and just in time for his shield to catch the impact. Edvard grunts at the force, the heels of his boots bracing his weight as he throws his body into motion, longsword blade glinting in frigid winter sun, which remains low on the horizon in spite of the mid-day hour.

There is a strange beauty in such deadly weapons; the fine craftsmanship benignly elegant, but malicious in use, the blade so thinly silver that bisecting human flesh was no more difficult than the inhalation of air. Often, Edvard was struck by how much he detested the inherent violence of the path that had been lain before him, perhaps just as often as he was struck by how _alive_ he felt with the hilt of a weapon snug and warm in his calloused palm.

His lips curl away from his teeth, a sharp smile.

The clang of steel rings through the courtyard as metal meets metal, the force of the collision vibrating through his fingers and wrists, all the way up to his shoulders. Sparks fly when the blades meet again, a testament to the level of training; dull blades did not spark and he was learning that sharpened ones did. Training with true blades was a novel experience, still, though he was quickly rising in the ranks, becoming more and more comfortable with deadly steel in his hands.

Sweating beneath the weight of chainmail and his training tunic, Edvard pivots, drawing his shield arm up to block his opponent's sword, his own blade coming down in an arc on the vulnerable side of a fellow knight. He curses beneath his breath when his attack is dodged, and retreats to contemplate his next move, weight rocking on the balls of his feet, knees hinged in an easy bend.

With certain intensity, eyes an arresting shade of grey size up his opponent, mind swift in cataloging the various strategies that would end this match as deftly as possible. If Edvard circled to the right, he might be able to feint into a lunge-

"You never parry left and all the knights know it. That's why you're losing," says his sister, Ealice, who sits leisurely beneath the shade of a wise old tree, book in her lap, apparently unbothered by the cold weather that had sent other ladies of her station indoors for refuge. With some annoyance, Edvard realizes that she did not even have to look up from her reading to be _right_ , but he supposes that is the way of sisters, and he takes her unsolicited advice.

 _To the left it is._

Edvard swiftly wins the match, knocking the knight onto his back and demanding he yield, tip of the blade pressed into links of pewter chainmail, his heart racing behind his sternum from exertion. The knight, Carlisle, is a veteran who has been training Edvard since he was old enough to understand what a sword was. Carlisle grins good-naturedly, clapping Edvard on the back in congratulations. Though Edvard may have acquired a certain prowess during his time in the Knighthood, he was still learning - and it was a rare day when he was able to beat Carlisle.

One day, though, when his victories are consistent and unchallenged, Edvard will take Carlisle's place as the First Knight of Elric, as it is his duty to hold such a position. A Prince can possess no power without first possessing evidence that he is worthy of such power. This is a lesson that has been drilled into Edvard's mind, buried beneath layers of training in swordsmanship, etiquette, and academia - and perhaps was the most important lesson yet.

Scowling, mildly disgruntled at his hard-won victory, Edvard shakes his head. "But I would not have won if not for my sister's input," he admits, reluctant to point out his failure and yet knowing that it must be done. Knights have died from false confidence. Edvard could not afford to be foolishly arrogant.

Anderson concedes the point, bowing his head respectfully. "Then you know what to do better next time."

 _Parry left, apparently_ , Edvard thinks with self-directed annoyance. It would not do to become so completely predictable. His father had not become King by telegraphing his movements - he had done so by utilizing creativity, something which Edvard had in _spades_ when he was not on the battlefield. Edvard had a great number of ideas on politics and economics and even philosophy, though philosophical query was not a necessary skill for a Prince. But he most emphatically did _not_ have the same ease of thought while clad in chainmail, even if the thrill of violence sent an intoxicating sense of being _alive_ through his veins.

It was one of the many tasks he would learn to master - by sheer stubbornness, if necessary - before his father felt comfortable in the notion that Edvard was a true Heir to the House of Elric. As it was, his little sister was better suited to the running of a kingdom, if not to the command of an army, and his little brother had a mind for strategy, though not a mind for compassion; Edvard, being the oldest, was expected to possess all the strengths of his siblings with none of their obvious weaknesses.

An impossible task, to be sure, though Edvard relentlessly pushed himself to achieve it. His good King and father was not getting any younger - and Edvard, who abhorred the very idea of disappointing his Lord, was determined to manage this feat well before his father was ready for the next world.

That Edvard had to also obtain a wife while doing so was left unsaid.

Every King needed a Queen - and the sprawling lands of Nordalta had been without a Queen for far, far too long. His duty, and his siblings' duty, was primarily the continuance of the Elric line, as it was expected that a Great House would have a bloodline of equal great measure. Edvard felt additional pressure as first born to lead by example in this area, but his eye had not been caught as of yet. In moments of honest doubt, he wasn't sure that his attention could be ensnared by a Lady of the court, or any of the daughters of Lords. He thought, perhaps, if he were able to search _outside_ of the most elite bloodlines - but that was unheard of and Edvard didn't make a habit of making waves.

Just as taking up a sword went against his nature, so to did overt rebelliousness. He could only hope that the mantel of King would be so natural.

"I'm cold," says Ealice imperiously, closing her book with a _snap_ loud enough to rouse Edvard from his inner musings. Sheathing his personal sword, he waves off one of the maidens that rushes from the warmth of the castle to assist his sister and instead offers Ealice his hand. She gives him the book she'd been reading and stands by herself, awarding him an arched brow for his efforts. "I didn't say that I required a hand, brother mine, only that I've tired of watching you play in the snow."

 _Sisters_.

"I'm hardly playing," he argues lightly, allowing her to tread through the shoveled snowy banks before him, the rest of the knights falling in line while servant boys rush around them to clean up the courtyard to restore it to pristine condition. Edvard spares a glance to ensure that the young boys are properly outfitted in winter cloaks and boots, as it wouldn't do for sickness to spread due to the carelessness of children, then disappears into the relative warmth of the stone castle.

"You're hardly training, either," Ealice replies just inside the eaves, standing still with her chin held high so that one of her handmaids can remove the heavy furs from her shoulders.

Edvard stills as the other knights disperse, leaving the Prince and Princess to their sibling chatter, though not before Carlisle claps Edvard on the shoulder once more. Though chainmail does little to provide warmth in the winter months, Edvard has found that he did not require the heavy fabrics that his sister preferred to stay warm and so he waits for her to free herself from such constriction.

"Honestly, sister, I urge you to rethink your perceptions. That was training, not playing."

Ealice catches his gaze, her eyes the same shade of Elric grey - a marbleized coloring that spans from the lightest silver to the deepest charcoal - before she shakes her head. He recognizes the expression as one that indicates her thoughtful mood, which spelled equally great insights or tactless observation, and braces himself. "I detect no true difference between the playing you did as a child and the training you do now, save that perhaps your playing was more productive," she tells him blithely pausing as she notes his tense reaction. "Edvard…"

"What would you know of training?" he demands, hushed in tone, ever mindful that the walls have ears and eyes that all dutifully report to their King. "The heft of a blade has never met your hand, nor has your mind ever strained beyond what you allow it. You cannot judge me or my efforts when you have not been required to participate in any activity that did not suit you."

Ealice frowns, a true and distinct emotion playing across her pale features, one of surprise and mild hurt that reminds him of the expression she'd had as a child after tripping and skinning her knee. As if she couldn't quite believe that it had _dared_ happen to her. "I meant no offense, Edvard."

He sighs. "I know."

It wasn't Ealice's fault that the expectation of ladies was different than the expectation of men. Though it was obvious that his sister pushed at the boundaries that limited her function in life simply _because_ she was born female, it was equally apparent that her efforts in progression had been nothing more than a father amusing the wishes of his daughter. Ealice experienced more freedom than any girl in the land, yet it was a false freedom. Her academic efforts were impressive, but she had no clear desire outside of her station in life; she would always be provided the privilege of royal blood regardless of which of her male relatives was King of Nordalta, and thus had no reason to seek knowledge that could be practical. Edvard wasn't sure what might happen if Ealice ever found herself outside of the throne room - he wasn't sure how _any_ courtiers would fare if they were made to survive away from their manors and it was for this reason that he felt so dispassionate toward the ladies who competed for his attention.

Spotting the tentative glint in his younger sister's eye, Edvard offers his elbow to her arm, dispelling his prior thoughts. It was often easy for him to forget that Ealice and Emett were still shy of fifteen and not wise to the world outside the castle walls. "I know you didn't intend offense," he repeats, guiding them through the candle-lit stone corridor with genuine care. "But I should warn you to mind your tongue, as there are others who would not be so understanding of your perspective, particularly that rascal twin of yours. However, I do appreciate your opinion, Ealice, and I will continue to encourage you to voice your thoughts."

Intellectual as she is, it is no difficulty at all for his sister to leap immediately to the right conclusion, casting her eyes about guilelessly as they reach the corner of the adjacent hallway which led directly to the public venues the castle boasted. "You mean that this is not a perfectly safe location to rebelliously opine?"

Edvard covers his snort with a well-practiced cough, quirking a brow. "The castle is the most safe location, as I'm sure you know."

"Oh, undoubtedly," she replies lightly. "Though, I will admit there are better places to express myself. Perhaps in the middle of the throne room during the Winter Feast?"

"Ideally," he says dryly.

Ealice pats his arm delicately, silently communicating her remorse for her slip-up - it was not far from either of their minds that only a year ago, a similarly expressed opinion from a daughter of a Lord had been overheard and resulted in the near-immediate banning from court until she had "better learned her place". And while Edvard was sure their father would be reluctant to remove Ealice to the countryside for daring to think for herself, he was equally as sure that Ealice was unwilling to take the risk, especially by _accident_. No, when Ealice truly rebelled, it would be planned to the last word and in the most obnoxiously theatrical manner she could think of - and it would be inarguably done with deliberation.

"What ever would I do without such a dedicated guard?" she inquires as they pass through the expansive open-arched hallways that, for the most part, entertained the court of Lords and Ladies during the day. Her voice is pitched low and teasing, but he understands her question to be honest. They are both acting to their roles as they stroll beneath the arches to access the furthest edge that led to the private wings of the castle, smiles etched firmly on their faces.

Nodding at a Lord who he does not truly remember meeting, Edvard responds with a faint hum of consideration. "I imagine you would have to mind yourself, sister, and hope that luck was on your side."

Ealice sniffs in disdain. "As if I would ever rely upon the elusive charm of _luck."_

The corners of Edvard's mouth twitch in a true grin that he does his best to suppress, though probably with much less skill than he would prefer. Thankfully, none of the courtiers seem avid to interrupt them, hopefully noting Edvard's obvious appearance as someone who would rather wish to be cleaned from his dirtied gear than roped into a debate on grain rations.

"Indeed, it is best to leave luck to those who need it most."

He and his sister are able to slip past the guards at the entrance of the private wing and the guards at the staircase of the corridor with very little fuss; they trek up the private stairs into the part of the castle that is reserved solely for the royal family, esteemed guests, and a very select group of servants who are permitted entrance. It is no mistake that the private wings of the castle are considerably warmer than the portions open to the rest of court. Artisan rugs line the stone hallways and tapestries hang over the highest edge of the considerably long, narrow stained-glass windows, while candelabras spaced liberally offer flame-yellow light to see by.

"Such as my twin? Of this you have my wholehearted agreement."

Edvard barks a surprised laugh, then bids his sister a brief farewell. They separate, him to the left and she to the right, both off to other activities, though if Edvard were to guess, he would assume that his sister was off to the library in the more distant wing, which was widely-known to be her favorite location. For himself, he was off to rid himself of the dried salt that had accumulated on his skin in spite of the frigid temperatures and, considering the time of day, to change into proper attire for the supper that was sure to be served in a few hours. Perhaps, if he was not called away, he would have a chance to peruse the book on philosophy he had stumbled upon - but as he approaches his chambers and notices the manservant fidgeting by the doorway, his plans are dashed.

"My Lord," says the boy, bowing awkwardly due to his gangly height. "You have been summoned for an audience with, er, with my Lord. The King. An audience with my Lord the King."

"Where?"

"Th-the King's personal rooms. Where the King is, that is."

Biting his tongue to discourage himself from laughing at the poor adolescent, Edvard returns to the polite visage that his tutors had trained into him as a young boy - the distant, subtly superior expression one might expect from a prince that Edvard's aristocratic features hosted quite naturally, or so he's told. "Very well," he says agreeably, then plucks at his chainmail. "Come along. Assist me in returning to a state that can be presented to the King."

The young manservant falters, tugging on the starch woolen shirt hanging oddly from his coltish frame. His reason for hesitation is clear enough - someone had probably warned him not to delay or had perhaps exaggerated the consequences of delivering his message without the utmost haste. Of course, he wasn't to know that Edvard would take measure to keep the situation clear if the boy _did_ wind up in trouble with his superior, but Edvard wasn't in any rush to clear the boy of the notion. It would do the new manservant well to understand the gravity of his duties and, in time, he would grow comfortable in the castle.

Though, why _Edvard_ was always assigned the new manservants, he hadn't any idea. He suspected, however, that Emett was somehow involved. His rascal brother usually was - and typically with the kind assistance of Ealice. Edvard's siblings lived to torment him, he was positive.

"Er, well, of course, Sire, but should you not…er, that is, the King seemed to want your audience…"

"I'm quite sure my father would rather not smell me before he sees me."

The manservant's eyes widen and he quickly darts about, nervous energy filling Edvard's chambers as the obviously new and untried manservant goes about ridding him of the heavy chainmail and sweat-darkened tunic and breeches. The boy holds onto the bundle of training gear, awkward until Edvard nods to the woven basket in the nearest corner.

Moving at a brisk pace, Edvard crosses to the tall wardrobe pressed against the wall between a set of long windows, opening the cabinets and avoiding the left side with a grimace. He waves the manservant forward, strangling his impatience. "What is your name? I'll not be calling you _boy_ anytime soon."

"Erm, Fergus, my Lord."

Edvard nods, then indicates to _Fergus_ which ensemble would be most appropriate. He hopes that the boy would be able to detect the pattern by which he stored his clothes and be able to predict Edvard's preferences in the future if he remained in this post. With Edvard's luck, however, he would have yet another new manservant within the next week, which was probably also due to Emett' orchestrations.

From the bowl of chilly water near the vanity and silk dressing screen that partitions the room between his bed and the chamber pot, he uses a rag to quickly rinse the sweat from his body and does not delay in dressing in a set of deep navy breeches, tunic, and surcoat. Though he is royal, it is not required for him or his siblings to dress in jeweled finery unless the occasion specifically calls for it and he therefore does not don any frivolous accessories. Before he leaves, he instructs Fergus to have his sword and chainmail cleaned and returned by the morning, sure that his expectations are generous enough for someone who is so new to the castle. Never let it be said that Edvard was not kind, at the very least.

The King's personal rooms were in the second private wing of the castle, remarkably close to where Ealice's favored library was. The rooms themselves are a set of two rectangular spaces; a personal office, and a living room, where meetings often took place, both which were connected to the King's personal chambers through a set of hidden passages of which only Edvard and his siblings were aware. The King's chambers were actually on the other side of the wing and were under heavy guard near-constantly, but any Elric knew that access to the chambers could be achieved in many ways.

It was, unquestionably, a well-guarded secret.

Still, Edvard often yearned to utilize these passages rather than resign himself to the watchful eye of every knightguard under his King's rule. The novelty of such attention had worn off before Edvard had ever been able to appreciate it and truly, he found himself nearly as weary as the guards, constantly fighting the urge to look over his own shoulder to detect the cause of such suspicious glances, only to realize that they were suspicious of _him_. To suspect the Heir Apparent of possible foulplay - absolutely preposterous, if Edvard's silent protests were ever heard, but also unwittingly appropriate. It had been before his time, but there was an era in the Elric line where such betrayals of kin were done by rote.

Which, Edvard supposes wryly, is a rather well-known secret, a fitting contrast to the _other_ well-guarded secret of his House.

Standing before the doors of the King's room, Edvard waits with his hands clasped behind his back for the guard to announce his presence and consequently permit him entrance to his father's living room. As a portion of the castle that was predominantly unseen by the greater public, it was outfitted in the type of heavy furs that his father preferred; bear skin across the wooden floors, rare mink pulled over down pillows on the stiff-backed chairs placed before the hearth, and of course his sire, draped in a cloak of what Edvard easily identifies as deerskin. A heavy, almost foreboding room by all accounts, but nevertheless a room that was easily balanced by echoes of feminine touch - from the day his mother had passed birthing the twins, there had never been a time where the blue crystal vase in the center of the room was missing flowers. He believed his father placed blooms there himself, though they did not speak of it.

The King is an imposing man, one of great girth and height with a head of closely-cropped inky black hair, just barely touched with the grey that betrays his age. Though Edvard is much more slim than his father, he shares the same height and the same dark hair, both readily identifying him - and, truly, his siblings - as individuals not native to the lands that they rule. Indeed, the House of Elric had once come from a land over the seas, but his great-grandfather had renounced his ties to the old lands and chose to instead conquer Nordalta and with it, the proper village of Alta, which had turned into a metropolis over the years of relatively successful Elric reign. Until Edvard's late - and insane - great-uncle, of course.

With some measure of force, Edvard turns his attention to his father - and away from upsetting thoughts - and dips his head in a bow, holding his position until the doors behind him are firmly shut. He relaxes marginally, wondering further into the living room and spying the leather-bound tome his father is leafing through.

"I believe you requested an audience?"

Perseus Elric grunts in confirmation, waving a hand to one of the seats before the flickering fire. This fire, as all fires in Alta and in the castle, is awash of orange-yellow flames, but Edvard often wonders what the _magical_ fires might look like - he has heard rumors that their flames glow the most exotic of colors and wonders if those rumors are true at all, or simply the result of folly court gossip. Would he ever know for himself?

"How does your training progress? I trust that you are swiftly moving up the ranks?" says Perseus, sitting across from Edvard and granting his son the full weight of a King's attention. It is through rigorous control of his body that Edvard does not flinch from the searching gaze. "When I was your age, the knights had begun to answer directly to me."

Pressing his lips together at the reminder, Edvard sinks deeper into the chair, resolutely removing his eyes from the hearth. "I bested Carlisle once again today," he admits, then frowns. "But I do not think I am prepared to lead the men. There is still much I can do to improve myself and I believe they will respect my leadership more if they are satisfied that I have worked hard for it."

Seeming to sense Edvard's censure, the King huffs in amusement. "My son," he replies. "I did not say that they _appreciated_ answering to me. If you feel that you should fully earn your place in the Knighthood, then I commend and support your efforts. It shows a measure of integrity and consideration. Very appealing traits for the future leader of this land."

Smiling easily, Edvard says, "I'm heartened by your approval."

Perseus raises dark brows. "But you have guessed that I did not request an audience to discuss training when I could just as easily gain this information over breakfast with your siblings."

Edvard inclines his head. That had been his exact assumption; there was no reason to formally request a meeting with Edvard for a topic so comparatively benign. He had not thought that this audience would be anything short of integral to his future when Fergus had relayed the request and while his leadership with the knights was certainly _important_ , Edvard did not think that updating his father on his progress was the goal of the meeting. Though it was courteous of his father to open the discussion with a topic Edvard was most involved in - it evened the footing between father and son, rather than King and Prince, so to speak.

"You would be correct, then," his father confesses, heaving a great sigh and standing, installing himself before the hearth with an expression of grave contemplation. Edvard straightens his own posture in response, quite suddenly anticipating news of the worst sort. "I have received troubling word from one of the Lords that lives near the village of Sassa. He has heard of rumblings from the outer Houses…and I fear that the safety of the Clans is about to be tested."

Edvard connects the dots rather quickly and stands, heart thumping in his chest. "You mean to send me to this village?"

"I do," the King confirms, leveling Edvard with a severe expression. "But in particular, I wish for you to ascertain any dangers this Cursed Child of Sassa poses."


	4. Three: The Damned Deed

**Three – The Damned Deed**

"There she is! The Cursed Child!"

Isobela ducks behind a tree, dodging the barrage of rocks thrown from the cruel hands of her peers, her hair swinging around her waist in a silvery arc that does nothing to hide her location. She squeezes her eyes shut as rocks pound against the rough bark of the tree, bracing herself for inevitable pain as she listens for the telling pause of hands reaching for more projectiles. One jagged edge scraps across her exposed skin of her cheek and the girl winces, waiting for the telling silence.

 _There_. Isobela darts into the shadowy shelter of canopies, her feet pressing into the snow, leaving a clear trail to be followed. Deeper into the forest, she runs as fast as her legs can take her, biting her lip as she is chased. She had done _nothing_ save for walking to the river to replenish her stores of water, but it did not matter. Isobela was the Cursed Child of Sassa, the stain upon the village. The very act of breathing was enough, she was certain, to incite this promise of violence.

Isobela - and her pursuers - weave through the expansive forest of Sassa, near enough to the river to hear the white-water rush over the pounding of boots. Her winter cloak snags on a thorny branch, halting her progress as the neck pulls with tension around her throat. Isobela swears, then reaches around to pull at the fabric frantically, casting her eyes behind her to see the shortening gap between herself and the other heirs of the Clans in Sassa. With a muted _crack_ , the thorn-bush breaks, releasing her cloak, and Isobela wastes no time in pulling it closer around her slim body, turning on her heel to race toward the river.

 _I can lose them in the water_ , she thinks. Isobela was a very good swimmer but it was still a testament to her desperation that she would dare swimming in the rapids of the river during the middle of winter.

"Not so fast!"

From the side, a boy around her age tackles her to the ground. Her head smacks against frozen soil and her vision swims. _He must have guessed what I was going to do_ , she realizes dizzily.

"I got her!" yells the boy, balancing on his knees as he sneers at Isobela, heavily-freckled face flushed from the cold and the chase. He sneers at her, standing. Isobela thinks he might be named Stephen and that he might be from the Clan of Borr, but she can't be certain as she had never actually spoken to him, despite this being the third time this year that he and his cohorts had chased her down. He is the largest boy in the village, brawny like the rest of his family as the Borr's were known for their great physical strength, aptly resembling the oxen and bulls they tended to as a Clan. His voice, yelling with clear excitement, is loud and deep and makes Isobela cringe into the frigid snow. "I won this round!"

The others make noises of defeat as they come closer, no longer thundering through the forest but rather circling Isobela's prone form. There is at least one other girl in the group and she makes the biggest fuss about Stephen's _victory_.

"It's just not fair," complains the girl to her friends, as if Isobela isn't on the ground being circled by human vultures. She is a kittenish girl with golden hair and tilted green eyes, sharp nails at the end of her fingers. "Stephen always catches the Cursed Child."

"Maybe she likes being caught," chortles one of the boys, tall and horse-faced. That sets off laughter that grates Isobela's ears, though she feels as if she is missing some kind of joke, even as the girl with the nasally voice flushes beet red at the jeers.

Isobela most certainly does _not_ enjoy these games. They are the bane of her existence and she wishes that they would _stop_ or find someone else to chase through the forest, but Isobela has never believed in wishes. She keeps her mouth shut, having learned in the past that it is better to remain quiet. They tend to leave her alone after a while if she refuses to make a sound.

"…guess I _could_ ," says Stephen, replying to some suggestion that Isobela had missed in her silent ire. His eyes turn to her, dancing across her body with an oily gaze that makes Isobela feel _dirty_. Stephen shrugs, nonchalant. "But it would be unseemly with a lady present."

"Tana isn't a lady," quips one of the boys, yelping when the girl - Tana - jabs him with her elbow. He glares at Tana with a hawkish sort of menace, then turns to leer at Stephen. "But if Tana doesn't _mind_ , go ahead and have fun."

Stephen raises a brow at Tana, who has gone wide-eyed and pale - and Isobela raises on her elbows in alarm, certain that the suggestion she missed was _not_ as ordinary as throwing icy rocks from the river at her. There is one thing that all women fear equally, after all, and it seems like Tana is about to discover that fear vicariously as Stephen kneels again on the ground, closer this time. He reaches for the clasp of Isobela's cloak and his intentions become clear.

 _No_.

This is much worse than her childhood bullies had ever done. They had tormented her, stalked her every movement, from the time before Isobela can even remember. The entire village, save for the Crone and a single Maiden, had unilaterally ostracized Isobela for something that had happened when she was still a baby - and while Isobela had grown accustomed to the cruelty, she fully expected to live her life in relative peace until she was old enough to fight back against the villagers of Sassa. The village might have been her home, might have even been the ancestral home of her fallen Clan, and Isobela might have never felt welcome - but she wouldn't allow herself to be pushed out of her rightful place, regardless of the pressure to do just that. Her intentions to establish herself as a healer and to train her magic - alone - was part of a well-thought out plan.

But this - Stephen's obvious intentions - was far beyond what Isobela had ever mentally prepared for. It hadn't ever occurred to her until that very moment that such a thing would happen to her. Foolish.

Gathering her wits, Isobela fights back against the questing hands on her person, slapping Stephen away, struggling and sliding on the snow as he rips at her cloak and, in spite of her efforts to escape, the velvet ties of her ratty dress. Her knee bends, kicking out, and Stephen grunts; his cold touch falls away for a moment, but then returns as he slaps her across the face. Stunned, Isobela's struggles pause and her dazed glance falls onto the five other teenagers in the forest. Tana and the horse-faced boy are wide-eyed and silent; the other three watch on, eager, and Isobela belated realizes that she will have no help in this.

No help from humans, at least. Not from her magic, either - she can't calm herself, can't grasp at the power around her or in her blood -

Isobela turns her head toward the river as Stephen's hands make purchase on the skin of her ribs, shivering in revulsion and internalized terror as she scans the rapids, searching - searching for what she can just _barely_ sense in the water - searching for the very thing she had been running toward when it occurred to her to swim across the river -

" _Serpico_ ," she hisses in urgency, spotting the smooth dusty grey scales of a beloved - and very poisonous - familiar with thinly veiled relief.

Stephen's hands halt on her body, bruising and harsh on never-touched flesh. "Did she just…speak?"

"It was just a sound, that's all!"

"Get on with it already. It's cold!"

Stephen doesn't listen to his friends - his attention has been drawn to the river with icy horror.

Rising from the chilly water, her only familiar who enjoys the cold strikes forward, curved fangs aimed at Stephen's throat in a feint attack - in warning. Serpico is an intimidating beast, his size enough to strike fear in the hearts of man, but Isobela knows him to be gentle. If he isn't provoked, of course.

Stephen falls onto his rear as Serpico slithers over Isobela's stomach, covering her flesh from view, tongue flicking out between his sharp teeth. " _Be gone, filth. Leave the hatchling alone_ ," says the snake, uncaring that the humans, except for Isobela, are deaf to his threats.

They hear only angry, venomous hissing. They see only the meaty coils of Serpico's relatively slim two-foot body resting protectively over Isobela's delicate frame and the curve of his deadly fangs. For her part, Isobela's body relaxes in infinitesimal degrees, blood rushing through her body and loud in her ears - but she's safe, or as relatively safe as she ever is. Serpico, a snake of her own, is here to protect her. It's a relief. She can't even bring herself to particularly care that her interaction with Serpico will surely be heard around the village in a few moments, even if part of her mind is wincing at the prospect of the villager's reactions to such a story. She'd always been so careful to never exploit the connection she shared with the snakes - there was no reason to antagonize her village. It seems, however, that her hand was forced.

Very unfortunate.

"Where did it come from? Kill it!"

Alarmed - and thoroughly shaken - Isobela reaches up, cupping her trembling palm over Serpico's head with a frown. "Do not harm him," she whispers, voice soft from disuse; often, she finds she can go days without speaking to another human and after a prolonged period of time, human speech always feels odd on her tongue. She pauses, tilting her head as she considers the mixed emotions on the faces of her peers. "Do not harm me."

Serpico, though he does not understand the human speech, hisses threateningly again, causing the other teenagers to blanch and freeze on the spot. " _Leave before this one takes revenge for the hatchling_ ," Serpico hisses, a fine drop of yellowish venom dripping from his fang.

Isobela's tormentors run. The girl, Tana, looks back once - expression both awfully fearful and vaguely apologetic, much to Isobela's consternation.

When they are gone and the forest is silent beyond the rushing waters, Isobela releases a shaky breath, sitting up to hastily retie the bindings of her dress, cloak slipping off her shoulder. The vexing burn of tears presses behind her eyes as her recently-escaped situation hits her with full force and implication - to think that childish bullying had escalated so far that such an act would even cross the mind of a teenage boy…

Isobela is very lucky. As a young woman, she had gradually come to the realization that though her hand in marriage was undesirable due to her lineage, it did not mean that her body was equally as undesirable. Rather, it seemed that men might take perverse pleasure in scorning her heritage to claim her body - a stomach-turning fact of life for Isobela. Knowing the downfall and harsh life for disgraced women, Isobela was not inclined to join their ranks - though she was unmarriageable, she was still the Last Heir of the Solvej Clan and she had every intention of guarding her purity to the standards that station demanded. She had been so incredibly foolish to assume that _young_ men would not share the same urges as grown men and vowed to never let her guard down again. That she or any woman should fear the urges of men leaves a sour taste in her mouth.

Perhaps it was time to carry a companion with her. Isobela had refrained from doing so because she did not want to draw more negative attention from the villagers, but it seemed as if her efforts were in vain. She drew unwanted attention no matter what she did; a familiar on her shoulders, hidden under the collar of her winter cloak, would be a safeguard that Isobela was no longer willing to deny. Worth the inevitable alienation and further potential of wrath, at the very least.

" _Thank you, Serpico, for you have saved me,"_ she hisses softly, teeth pressing against tongue as she caresses the snake with reverence, still shivering under the reality of what _almost_ happened to her and praying to the Old Ones that such a deed never be attempted again. She was rather perturbed at her lack of defense, truly; while not trained by a Clan, magic usually responded so instinctively to Isobela's desires. It was disheartening to realize that magic would not always respond as she wanted it to - and Isobela had very few ideas as to how she might combat that.

Serpico's cold tongue flicks lightly over the curve of her cheek, drawing her away from troubling thoughts. " _That two-legged was not the hatchling's mate,"_ replies the snake, cold body slithering back onto the snow with ease, waiting for Isobela to stand and shaking the snow off her cloak.

Isobela's brow furrows at the comment, but dismisses it as just another odd phrase a snake had ever uttered to her. Snakes, she had found, were peculiar creatures, even to someone who understood what they were saying.

And Isobela seemed to attract the oddest of them all.

 **oOo**

Isobela is thoroughly shaken by Stephen's attack and by the willingness of her peers to stand by and allow such a thing to happen. Understanding that she was undesirable to the village had been an anchor of cruel normalcy for Isobela - and realizing that male desire was quite a different concept had made her withdraw further into herself. The Crone had never _said_ …and Rosemary, after becoming a Mother, had been so curiously mum about the entire subject. Isobela knew, from the snakes, that such desires were a natural part of the life cycle…But still, her lack of understanding sits ill in her mind.

Had she somehow encouraged the attention? Isobela didn't think so, but if she had, she certainly didn't know any better. It was not the place of the Seers to teach her, after all, and Isobela felt fortunate enough that the Crone was willing to spare knowledge about healing. The Crone was under no obligation to impart knowledge that a mother was meant to and Isobela, so used to muddling through the changes of her body under the tutelage of serpents, thought that she would simply have to figure out the issue for herself. And figure out how to avoid attracting such attention, as it were.

After Serpico describes the attack to the other snakes - four in total who Isobela considered to be her family - a rotation is created by the serpents, with Toree assigning herself the task of personally guarding Isobela anytime the girl steps outside of their home. As it stands, it is an odd experience to overhear such protective delegation from creatures that were known to be quite self-serving. Isobela was touched at their loyalty, but had warned them that they were not to bite _anyone_ under any circumstances.

She cannot bear the thought of her snakes being murdered by the village in retribution - and though she does not say as much, it is clear that the snakes had invariably understood the implications. Her snakes had always been very careful of where they placed their fangs. That her snakes were venomous was hardly a concern for _Isobela_ , but she had never been tested in counteracting their poison and she wasn't eager to try.

Eventually, though, after weeks of looking over her shoulder and awaiting retribution that never came, a long-lost thought rises unbidden in Isobela's mind as she lays restless on her cot - a means of protection she had never seriously contemplated, but one that seemed inevitable, now. She wonders if the Crone knew that this might happen, if the Crone had Seen what events led to the firm conclusion Isobela had drawn. If the Crone had deliberately placed the idea in Isobela's mind…

And if the Crone had known - then it truly was inevitable, wasn't it? An unavoidable part of Isobela's destiny, one that she would be willing to embrace for the sole reason of protecting herself and her serpentine family.

The dual benefit, of course, was the possibility of perfecting her knowledge of healing and of finally embracing the lost traditions of her Clan. And indeed, as a piece of familial tradition that would otherwise be lost to time, Isobela would be that much closer to her ancestors if she were to _actually_ perform the ritual. Even contemplating it sent of thrill through her body and she spent the rest of her night with her mind racing, curled amongst her snakes - planning with temerity that Isobela seldom engaged.

But at what cost?

 **oOo**

Isobela bides her time, watching the lunar cycle with a sharp eye each night, gathering the required plant life for the potion she would need just in case the ritual went horribly wrong - not that Isobela was anticipating such devastation. She prepared her mind and body the best she was able, spending her nights in quiet contemplation and her days nourishing her body with covetously selected nuts and breads and making the trek to the rushing river to replenish her water stores each day in spite of the rather dismally wintery weather.

And she spoke to the Crone, just once.

"I believe you have Seen what I plan to do," she says, hushed at the Crone's side as the old woman reclines close to the hearth in the home of the Seers. She is wary of the eyes on her, of the ears straining for her voice, and tilts her head down. The Crone does not look away from the threads in her fingers, brightly-dyed stands of wool that twist and tangle in the knobby creases of the Crone's hands, but Isobela knows that she has the woman's attention. "I daren't ask for advice in such matters, but in the event that I am not-"

"Child," the Crone interrupts benignly. "Have you ever found failure where you sought success?"

Isobela blinks, surprise flitting across her face. Then, she shakes her head, determined in her request. "Even so," she replies. "If I perish, please see to it that my companions are left unharmed…and allow me passage to the heavens of my ancestors, by the Old Flame."

Still tugging on the woolen strands, the Crone raises her Seer-blue eyes. "Aye, girl. By the Old Flame."

"So mote it be."

"So mote it be."

Reassured that at least one person in all of Sassa was aware of her plans, Isobela is newly emboldened by the ritual that would unfold on the upcoming full moon, and goes about her preparation with the entirety of her determination.

 **oOo**

 _It hurts_.

Isobela had not expected the pain - or rather, she had been anxiously aware that a certain amount of discomfort was inevitable, but she had not anticipated the _degree_ of pain that would be involved.

Otherwise, her preparations had not gone amiss. The eve of the full moon, Isobela had pricked the tip of her finger to inscribe runes on the skin over her brow and heart; she had added sages to the kindling of her hearth to fill her hovel with ritual smoke; she had fasted and abstained from water; she had knelt in a circle of tiger-eye stones and sigils to breathe and focus the magic that began to rise, bidden to the surface of her consciousness.

And then she had called to Toree in the serpent speech.

And she had invited Toree to bite, had welcomed the pinch of fangs and the sting of venom as she murmured the Old Words - a heart language that all augurs knew but did not know - calling to the Old Ones so that she might be adorned with the gifts of her bloodline.

Isobela had lost time.

And then the pain seared, a veritable crescendo, and she had fallen from her knees to land on her hip, weak as her eyes adjusted to the lightening-blue flame banishing the shadows from her home - and quivering as her attention was drawn to the only evidence of her irreversible actions.

As if in damning accusation, dual bruises mar the snowy smoothness the skin around the delicate bone of her wrist, wounds of weeping crimson surrounded by tender, new-healing plum-olive. Rotating the joint, a sharp prickle of pain is followed by molten warmth. The sensation is negligible in the wake of the realization that the venom - a testament of her best efforts - has spread.

 _The village must never know_ , Isobela decides, ever-silent. Secluded in the underground habitat she had claimed as her own, she huddles beneath the hastily mended blanket an old mother of the village had reluctantly bequeathed to her for the winter. Her skin feels as if it is not her own; even the silvery ends of her hair throb in time with the agony ripping through her body.

She bites her lip against the sensations - she knows that the scorching of her blood is a sign that her magic was mending, reconciling with what she had done.

Toree, a faithful companion, sways her head from the coil of her scales, intelligent eyes like summer melons blinking slowly, unrepentant. " _You wanted to know, hatchling, and so you do."_

Isobela narrows her eyes at the smallest serpent she calls her own, grudging in her acceptance of the creature's cold logic. It didn't make up for the shock of the bite, though, or the searing of the venom pumping toward her heart, through her blood. Though Toree is not the first snake to bite her in all of her sixteen winters, Toree is the first to bite her with the intent to poison - and she can already feel the effects. Dizziness, blackness around the edges of her vision, sweat budding beneath her arms, on her brow, between her small breasts.

" _And if you were wrong?"_ she hisses in the serpent-speak, the language that was lost in the demolition of her clan, the language that she alone can understand now that she is the last of her kind. " _What if I did not inherent that of my father's blood? What if I am of my mother_?"

A true concern - her mother had been one of the few in all the surrounding lands that was not tied with blood to any clan. A nomad, as it were, and a rare female at that. As was typical, the clan traits were widely understood to be passed along the maternal line, and it was a true surprise that the girl, the only-born of her parents, had been gifted with the serpent-speak.

But the ability to use the serpent speech was not indicative of other talents her clan was known for - and in fact, it was rare that any child of any clan would inherit all abilities associated with their birthrights.

Isobela was taking a chance, a risk that was inadvisable, both because of her seclusion from the rest of the village and because of the harshness of this winter. A gamble of her life to sate her curiosity and perhaps to guarantee her future.

She wasn't sure it was the right decision, but it was too late now. She pulls the blanket closer around her shoulders, fighting off violent shivers, and watches as the bruises around the bite mottle with rapid speed - a kaleidoscope from olive to ocher to violet to the deepest blue-black and back again. That was a sign, she was sure, but she didn't know what it meant, not without consulting tomes that had been lost in the massacre or venturing into the snow storm to question the Crone.

Isobela gasps rapid breaths, acclimating to the change she is forcing her body through - and waiting to see if her magic can indeed join with the venom coursing through her veins. If the ritual was successful, Isobela would have access to infinite possibilities - protection, healing, the maturation of her magic and all that entailed.

But the ritual had to work first - and Isobela had to _survive_ it.

She has survived in much more dire circumstances, though, and with much less intent to do so.

Toree slithers forward, smooth scales cool over the inflamed flesh around her wrist. The snake's brilliant coloring, fine raspberry from her diamond-shaped head to the tip of her tail that slowly shifted to the most pale of yellows at the belly, contrasts gorgeously with the Isobela's pallid tone. Toree's forked tongue flickers, tasting her bite marks, hissing in satisfaction. " _All will be well, hatchling. Rest._ "

The girl nods, unable and unwilling to fight the draw of blissful unconsciousness any longer.

She does not know that as she closes her eyes - irises a violent shade of orchid - her pupils shift ever so slightly, no longer human-round, but rather oblong at the top and bottom.

Like a snake.

Like a true heir of a deadly beast that, at that very moment, raises its head from the bowels of a deep mountain hundreds of miles away - awoken by the signs of progeny beginning the first steps of a journey long foreseen.


	5. Four: The Rumoring

**Four – The Rumoring**

"You hear things," says the elderly man clothed in what Edvard regards as an outrageous expression of obvious wealth, unknowingly echoing many of the Lords who had spoken before him. "Oh, and I have heard so many accounts of this demon, my Lord. I assure you I have correspondence of all sightings of the creature, if you would like to see them for yourself, my Lord?"

"That's not necessary," Edvard says, tone level and expression flatly polite. "Though, I do appreciate any information you can tell me about this…individual."

The Lord - disgustingly rotund and with a name that Edvard couldn't be bothered to remember, so much was his exhaustion - eagerly jumps at the opportunity to share his observations with the Heir Apparent of the House of Elric. The enthusiasm was, unfortunately, not a novel experience. Each Lord Edvard had questioned had similar vague responses when questioned about the Cursed Child of Sassa, much to the disconcertment of their Prince. He found the reports to be unaccountably inconsistent - the Cursed Child was a boy, then a girl, than a shadow-cloaked demon that was the apparent embodiment of augur evil. The child had fangs or claws or eyes like blood. Hearing its voice was enough to make the ears bleed - _and seeing_ the child was enough to blind even the most humble of men. 

"Living so close to these… _people_. My farmers share land with some of those villagers and they tell me that all anyone in Sassa can talk about is this Cursed Child. Fanged, though of course she tries to hide it, I'm sure. But you can't hide evil and the fangs remain to warn all against the child's impure soul! And she's the reason, I should hasten to mention, that the harvests have been so sparse in this region, my Lord. The girl is truly a curse!"

Edvard blinks slowly. "As you say."

Privately, Edvard's energy wilted. This journey was hellish - trudging day in and day out through piles of hard-packed snow, weighed down by armor and chainmail, and constantly guarding his perception of the situation from the relative hysteria of his constituents when he so much as mentioned the alleged Demon Child of Sassa.

A trying experience, to be sure.

For Edvard, the last two weeks of travel from the northern lands of Nordalta to the southern reach of his father's kingdom had been an exercise in patience. It was far from the first time that Edvard had toured the kingdom - and in fact, between Emett and Ealice, he had been afforded the most wholesome view of the clear lakes, rolling greenways, and rough-hewn, snow-capped mountains of the realm that would one day be his. Over the course of the past several years, since Edvard had come of age during his fifteenth spring, he had visited all manner of villages, outposts, and manors, finding each unique unto themselves and each a distinct challenge for the future of his rule. He'd made mental calculations about the best ways to handle the farmers, the most logical methods to soothe the fragile egos of Lords and Ladies, and the easiest approach to endear the most common of people.

But those tours were distinct from this venture. His previous forays had been focused, limited in scope to specific purposes - he would visit all the manors, or all the poverty-stricken villages, or all of the military outposts. The travels on these tours were planned to the last detail and very rarely would those plans deviate.

This journey, however, was subject to the whims of rumors. To Edvard's dismay, he was led on a goose-chase from manor to manor and village to village, his ears open to the scandalized murmurs of each person he spoke to - a task he took to with personal attention, convinced that it was a test of his future quality as a leader more than anything else. Or, at the very least, it _could_ be a test of those qualities. It was a testament to his King's discretion that even Edvard was unsure of the true purpose of these travels.

He couldn't imagine that his King _actually_ wanted Edvard to round up some poor child - especially not an augur child, not with his father's interesting history with the Clans. That would be a political nightmare.

The purpose must be something else, then. Edvard's best guess was that his father was trying to gauge Edvard's dedication to the kingdom, though it was an uncertain suspicion. He'd resolved to do his best, regardless, which was why he'd found himself listening to yet another aging Lord espouse about the dangers of demonic children.

Edvard represses a sigh as the Lord continues to squall, evidently unaware that the Prince had lost interest in the diatribe many minutes before. Nevertheless, Edvard performs his duty to the best of his ability, retaining the polite expression of detachment on his face through sheer force of will.

His brother is not so considerate.

"Is any of that true?" Emett cuts in, raising a single brow with a skeptical air. Similarly to Edvard, the younger Prince is outfitted in the best fine-crafted armor available in Nordalta, though Emett wears his with a decidedly jaunty attitude, his cape affixed over his chest diagonally and hair windswept about his face. "I highly doubt that anyone can actually breathe fire."

Carlisle, who as a senior knight was privy to the true purpose of this journey and had taken sole responsibility of guarding the Princes as they entered any manor, shack, or establishment, coughs discreetly into his hand.

"My Lord," Emett adds drolly after a lengthy pause.

Edvard bites his inner cheek.

It's inappropriate that Emett should show such disrespect for an elder, doubly so to show such disrespect for a loyal Lord of their King - but it was also _very_ humorous. And it wasn't as if the Lord would actually have the gall to call Emett out on improper behavior. Or as if Edvard would take any steps to correct his sibling's impropriety, though he probably should.

Yet, Edvard was so deeply relieved that the elderly Lord had ceased his long-winded explanation. He can do little else save for curtly thanking the Lord and seeing himself out of the manor that had, in all honesty, seen better days. To say that Edvard was eager to remove himself from the overtly judgmental - and implausible - accounts of rumored sightings of this alleged Cursed Child was an understatement. Edvard had quite enough with following the lead of gossip mongering fools and said as much to Carlisle as the trio approached the collection of horses loitering near the front gates of the property.

"Thank the Gods," Emett mutters uncharitably.

Dampening his frustrated temper, Edvard swings his body up to mount the inky stallion he'd had since he was a boy. Igor whinnies in greeting as Edvard settles, casting a sharp eye to his younger brother. "I should think you mean _God_."

Emett snorts. "My tongue did not slip."

"Nor would you ever admit that it might," Edvard replies.

Blithely continuing, Emett settles onto his own horse, tightening the reins while the Princes wait for the other knights of their troop to mimic his actions. "I am most intrigued by the practices of these pagans. These past weeks have opened my eyes, dear brother, and I find that I am eager to learn more of these savage people. If even half of what we've heard is true, I would find it especially enlightening to verify the tales of their abilities."

Raising a brow, Edvard says, "I do not believe they will agree to spar a crown Prince."

Emett scowls. "Then they know not of entertainment. Pagan or not, all men feel the draw to violence. Father says as much, at least, and our tutors confirm this idea. I am sure there will be at least one pagan in this accursed village of Sassa that will appease my curiosity."

"Careful that you do not incite a war, Emett."

"Life is not restrained to politics, Edvard. I shall do what I please."

 _And I shall clean up the mess_ , Edvard determines silently, leaving his brother to ponder whatever might be hidden in that thick skull of his. There was no arguing with Emett once an idea was in his head - nor was there any deterring of Ealice once she set a goal. Edvard did not think this to be a familial trait, but he would readily admit that he had the same inclinations, though usually for less frivolous reasons.

Turning his attention to the waiting knights, Edvard inquires to how far away from Sassa they might be, already judging the time of day as a bit later than he'd first thought if the dipping sun beneath shadowing trees was any indication. They would have to set camp soon, but Edvard didn't think there was any harm in getting a head start on the next day's travels. He was rather anxious to move on, believing that he'd heard quite enough about this Cursed Child over the last few weeks.

And although he would never confess to such a thought, Edvard would much rather be as far from this particular Lord and his haggard manor as possible. The Lord's mannerisms chaffed him and his perspective was nothing short of vexing. Edvard's patience for this entire endeavor was wearing thin.

"A few days, my Lord, if the maps are correct," Carlisle responds, consulting one of the lower knights who acted as the navigator on this journey. "Though we are undoubtedly mere hours from our destination, the village of Sassa if deep within the valley of the Altar mountains, which will delay our progression."

Edvard nods. He'd seen the maps days ago and had thought as much, but the confirmation was welcome. Traversing mountains was dangerous even for experienced men and valleys posed a similar danger. It would be best to bide their time on this part of their journey, though Edvard is certain that Carlisle - being in charge of the safety of _both_ Princes - would have it no other way.

"Then let us ride," Edvard vocalizes, spurring Igor into a brisk pace in the general southern direction of the Altar mountains and, ultimately, toward Sassa.

But - to Edvard's supreme consternation - the oddest sensation prickles on his skin as he speaks, as if snow has been tipped down the back of his armor and is melting against his simple wool tunic. Each hair stands on end. Edvard is not superstitious and does not believe in the foreboding signs that even his kinsmen pay attention to - and yet he has a worrisome flash of intuition as he and his men trudge through new-fallen snow.

Edvard has the unshakable thought that he is heading into danger.

 **oOo**

For the life of him, Edvard should have heeded to that sense of untimely demise.

In all honesty, it had been the understanding that, as Edvard grew up, he was to be confined to the castle or a countryside manor during the oft-harsh winters of Nordalta. He did not have very much experience with cold season travels and had been content to let better prepared knights lead their party through the southern lands, even though Edvard had observed that the weather around the valley was much less dire than the weather up north.

Which, in retrospect, was an atrocious assumption.

Their sudden difficulty with the weather is compounded by the fact that not a single man - not even senior-most Carlisle, who is well into his forties - has traversed the pagan lands. As Edvard understands it, the southern border of the kingdom has historically belonged to the augurs and, in particular, the village-turned-reservation of Sassa was under the jurisdiction of one family - the Clan of Solvej - until after the civil war, where ownership of the lands fell into mystery after some tragic fire. Interesting, perhaps, but the key note is that, as non-pagans, none of his knights had any idea what they were heading into as the protective forest of Sassa glooms overhead. Maps only told so much and it was widely acknowledged that maps of pagan lands were - suspiciously - intentionally - sparse in topography.

The knights knew only the basics: there was Sassa, a safe hold village in a deep valley, the forest around Sassa, and the Altar mountains surrounding the forest, with a river of some width bisecting both the forest and the mountains.

Not one of the men had thought the forest would be the true challenge.

The Altar mountains demand two days of diligent attention as the knights remove their armor for better flexibility, storing the heavy, cumbersome metal in packs that are carried on their backs. At Edvard's direction and Carlisle's agreement, the horses are abandoned with two men at the foot of the mountains in a secluded clearing; the decision to spare horses of the strain is one that is made easily, but not lightly. Without the horses, the knights would have to rely on their own speed, but Edvard thinks the trade-off is worth it, even with the heavy armor clinking against his chainmail as he and his men slip on icy rock and rubble. They do not climb the mountains, but rather skirt around the lowest path, taking advantages of the jutting cliffs and natural formations in the deep rock that aid in their travel. At one point, Emett observes that they might have well found an old trading route from when the Clans were spread among the kingdom; evidence of the well-worn rock, which is smooth after years of foot-trodden erosion, supports his theory.

But the old path on the Altar mountains are the knights final stroke of dumb luck.

"God save us all," Emett mutters as he catches sight of the forest around Sassa.

Beside his brother, Edvard silently agrees - and curses the maps for not painting an accurate picture of what he and his knights would be facing. If Edvard had thought that the unforgiving Altar mountains had been a challenge, he is sorely prepared for this forest.

At first glance, it is dark, shadowy with fog rolling among the roots of massive, looming trees pressed so closely together that Edvard cannot tell one tree from another, even from a distance. Light does not filter through the branches and because of this, the heavy mists on the ground are better able to disguise the deep ravines sloping several dozen feet downward, straight into a white-rushing river that is loud enough to cloak the voices of the knights. They very quickly come to realize that man-made light - fire - has little place in this forest; Carlisle's burning branch is saturated by the mist and Emett's ignited kerosene cloth quite simply _refuses_ to stay alight.

They all, silently, suspect magic as the cause and, as there is little they can do about this, they are forced to travel only during the hours where ambient sunlight casts vague shadows around the trees. Edvard is thankful for his sturdy boots more than once, but his warm feet do little to counter the pervasive chill of the winter, nor the fact that the knights are forced to remain still lest they find their demise in the river that makes its presence known in inconsistent intervals.

Edvard cannot fathom why any would choose to live near this hellish forest - or _how_ reports of this Cursed Child could possibly survive the travel over both the mountain and the ghastly perimeter of Sassa. It defies all logic.

But he is determined in his mission, in the investigation of these rumors, and most importantly, of proving his mettle to his King and the court, which was the main purpose of his task. Edvard will not be deterred by _trees_ , he decides stubbornly, a silent challenge to the divinities.

A dare that is swiftly answered by the torrent of snow that drifts to the forest floor while he sleeps huddled against the base of a tree. Edvard wakes when his limbs ache from the numbing cold, his heart hammering quickly in his chest, eyes wide as the knights curse and grumble.

 _By God,_ he thinks dumbly, snow melting from his hair, body shivering to generate heat. He hopes that the horses, at least, are faring better than the knights. He wonders if he should have left Emett with Igor, so at least his father would have a remaining male heir in case this damned forest is successful in killing him. An oversight on his part, perhaps, to be so arrogant as to assume the pagans would welcome them with open hearths - as the hours pass on the wretched day and tundra night falls to icy morning, Edvard is more and more certain that magic has shrouded this forest.

That magic is the cause the accursed snow biting aches into his joints, stiffness into his limbs, and a sense of desolation into his heart. He is so very tired.

The snow is both a challenge and a boon; difficult as it deadens their feet, but helpful as the reflection of the frozen ice traps the light of the sun in the forest, tinting the shadows of the forest with weak gray light. Edvard has heard tale of men who have succumbed to death from the cold kiss of frost, but he does not intend to be one of them even though he is without the helpful heat of fire to ward off the worst of the chills - even if he is trapped in this thrice-damned copse. He and his fellow knights take advantage of the weak light and cover ground more swiftly, ever-aware of the narrow path provided by the forest that serves as a sort of bridge; three feet to either side of his body, winding and forked and curved around trees, the snow-trodden path reveals deep ravine pit-falls waiting to clutch at boot-clad ankles.

He urges his men to be cautious, wary of ice that might trick them into believing the ground is firm where it is not. Even Emett is subdued by Edvard's light-footed efforts; unlike the day previous, he does not fill the forest with asinine, sardonic chatter, as is his natural prerogative. This, more than anything, reaffirms Edvard's caution.

The knights toil forward, shivering in unforgiving metal, weighted by the armor tied to their backs. Edvard has lost feeling of his face in deference to the bitter cold and knows that he and his men are entering dire straits - they need _warmth_. Shelter. Water that is not crunched between the teeth, leaden in the stomach and unable to melt.

Then - _there_.

A break in the tree line. Narrow enough that only one knight could fit at a time, but Edvard can just barely make out the shape of flat whiteness - smooth, unblemished snow with _no trees_.

Emett, having seen this too, dashes off, youthful eagerness - and blind sightedness - dimming his ears to Edvard's yelp of warning.

His younger brother runs to the narrow break in the tree line, twisting his body to the side to better facilitate an easy travel between rough barks - Emett squeezes through -

And promptly disappears from sight.


	6. Five: The Men

**Five – The Men**

" _Speaker_."

Isobela is roused from uneasy, feverish slumber by the abrupt tone of her largest snake as Jetta's massive body coils around her bare feet, a threatening hiss followed by the rapid-fire flick of a darkly forked tongue as the snake's head tilts to and fro, attention perked toward something beyond the range of Isobela's feeble human senses. Jetta's black scales - jet black, in fact, so dark that light seems swallowed and trapped by the snake - are tense with agitation as Isobela blinks, bleary-eyed and gaining her bearings.

The ritual - the night before. Had it worked? Isobela feels untethered to the world and upon quick reflection of her body, she is still suffering from Toree's poison as it works to incorporate itself with Isobela's tiniest cells.

But her magic - _oh._ It had already been wild, untamed but eager to her bidding if she willed it, but _now_ it was stronger. Thrumming with every beat of her heart, as if the magic is fueling Isobela rather than Isobela fueling the magic. Responsive and warm, her magic is actively reconciling Toree's venom in her blood.

Even as she still suffers the heat of fever in her limbs, Isobela has never felt more strong in her entire life. More alive, even.

The ritual had worked. Was working. Would continue to work, if every full moon was used to introduce the venom of her familiars to the earnest riot of her magic, her blood, her very being and soul.

Isobela had done it.

But, if Jetta was to be believed - and Isobela had no reason to doubt her protective snake - then Isobela had not time to celebrate the small victory the ritual represented. There were evidently urgent matters that required Isobela's immediate attention. Jetta had very rarely ever alerted her to a disturbance unless the snake thought Isobela's safety was at risk.

Isobela sits up, wincing at the unexpected pull of her diminutive muscles, and strokes a careful finger over Jetta's wide, flat head, which was easily as large as Isobela's palm. " _What is it_?"

" _Intruders_."

From around Isobela's neck, Toree hisses in curiosity, the scales of her belly warm against Isobela's skin. Serpico, who had been slumbering at Isobela's side, winds around her forearm, resting his head against the back of her hand, clearly picking up on Jetta's provocative, irate mood.

It is the strange albino cobra, Ingar, who flashes magenta eyes at the largest snake, slithering from Isobela's blankets with his hood flared. " _Cretin_?"

 _Villagers_ , Isobela's mind supplies.

Jetta does not turn her head to the other snake as she answers, her full attention riveted on what the other snakes - smaller and younger - cannot hear. " _Weaker cretin_ ," the snake assesses. " _This one scents pain and many loud rhythms_."

Isobela frowns, hearing this. _Weaker cretin_ was new to her understanding of serpent terminology and she wasn't sure what it might mean. The snakes all agreed that the villagers, in general, were cretin and tended to refer to them as such - but she had never heard any of her snakes call a villager _weak_ , not even the smallest child or the oldest man. And the pain that Jetta could smell in addition to the _loud rhythms_ \- heart beats, and apparently more than one - had Isobela's magic rising under her skin. Toree, who is now so very connected to Isobela's magic, tightens around her neck, a comforting pressure that somehow settles the tension building in Isobela's blood.

 _"Hn_." Ingar slithers to the floor and with the lightning-quick speed of his breed, disappears through one of the mouse holes that had been appropriated for the snakes of the hovel after they had cleared the mice from the dirt-walls.

Isobela's eyes widen - she has very little doubt as to where Ingar was going.

 _Oh, no_!

Isobela bolts from her humble cot, aware that Ingar is not known for his restraint - he is as independent as Toree, but as protective as Jetta and more poisonous than Serpico. It is not a good combination when Ingar is particularly motivated with Isobela's safety - especially in recent weeks. She'd had to talk her cobra down from scenting out Stephen to _punish_ the boy for his _crimes against the hatchling_.

She can imagine that Ingar's protective streak would not be as discriminatory as it should be - if Jetta has sensed humans who are _not_ villagers, Isobela is doubly more responsible for reining the venom of her snakes. She could not allow Ingar to harm a mundane who had, somehow, wandered through the forest of Sassa unhindered.

Wrenching the door open, Isobela stumbles bare-foot onto the fresh snow surrounding her partially-underground hovel, tripping over a hidden root and skinning her knee on unforgiving ice. She winces, but pushes herself on, eyes wide as she tries to search for the tell-tale iridescent glint of Ingar's white scales against the starkness of the untouched, newly-fallen snow.

It is worse than searching for a needle within a haystack. She is relying entirely on her slim ability of spotting the pearlescent glint of her snake's scales - or, if she were lucky, the smallest shadow of his flared hood cast upon the snow from the early morning sun above. Her knowledge of Ingar's speed - perhaps tied with Toree's, if Toree were motivated to speed - does not sooth her nerves, her anxiety that Ingar might find the mundane or the villager before she can stop him.

Rather, it ignites her fear - and pushes her body faster. Isobela grows more clumsy, her feet sinking deep into the icy powder, snow catching at her ankles and calves. The cold is arresting and steals the grace from her body.

She continues to run, breath caught in her throat as she forces air through the clench of her teeth. " _Ingar! No! Do not bite!_ "

She cannot see her snake, though she is aware of Toree's weight around her neck and Toree's sibilant urging that _Ingar cease this foolishness_. Peripherally, Isobela is aware that Jetta is slinking through banks of snow, hiding her long, dark body and keeping pace with Isobela's progress-

Isobela does not see Ingar, but she _does_ see - at the very edge of her valley, just beneath the break of the tree line in the forest that looms over her home - the fallen body of a silver-clad man. She cannot hear Ingar, but she can hear the alarmed yells of other men, their voices deep and rattling through her valley; she did not hear them before, not beyond her own serpent speech, but she can hear them now. It does not take long for Isobela to piece together what had happened.

Men - mundane, as the augurs would know better than to traverse the forest of Sassa during a winter storm - had come to the village and one had fallen from some height from the abrupt ravine that edged her valley. He had probably believed that the land would be flat beyond the trees, as the snow had obscured the change in land depth quite convincingly. He had fallen and his cry of pain - and the scent of fresh blood - had roused Jetta and then Ingar -

 _"Yield, Ingar!"_ she commands, skidding to a stop not three feet from the fallen man to see Ingar's flared hood dance from a drift of deep snow, clearly prepared to attack. Ingar's scales are nearly completely camouflaged by the snow. She is lucky to know his methods so well and even more fortunate that she had been able to run as fast as she had, even as her body continues to ache from the ritual, even as the shock of cold makes her lips tremble. " _Steady your fang. Please."_

 _"The vermin intrudes_ ," Ingar responds, hood still flared, the upper half of his body still weaving in the air, tongue eagerly scenting what Isobela can sense with her magic - the pain of the man in the snow and the terror of the men above.

 _"You will not bite him_ ," she decrees, then cuts her eyes to the side of her cheek, where Toree has pressed against her skin. Isobela's magic licks at her veins and her healing training urges her to help the man who had fallen, be him of good intentions or not. She does not know if she _should_ heal him, however; she does not know if her magic is ready, or if she can withstand the pain in her body to be able to use the product of the ritual.

By the slow blink of Toree's summer melon eyes, the snake is equally as indecisive.

There is nothing for it, though. Isobela's calling is to heal - to her detriment or not.

But she cannot heal this man with the other men standing above her head, all in danger of falling to the same fate. And she cannot heal this man if she is suffering from the cold, too, as she is abundantly aware - the pinpricks of ice clawing at her feet remind her - that she is not dressed for the weather, still in the too-thin shift dress she performed the ritual in, her arms, legs, and feet all exposed to the bite of chill in the air and on the ground.

Isobela bites her lip, then casts her eye to the snow bank where Jetta is concealed her body. _"Steady the mundane_ ," Isobela orders Jetta, stepping closer to the man lying in the snow and ignoring his companions for the moment. She must better assess how he has been injured.

Standing over him, arms wrapped around her chest to preserve warmth - and ignoring Ingar as he slithers around her leg, coiling tightly around her calf - Isobela peers down at the man, frowning. She cannot tell if his neck has been injured by the fall, but there is blood on the snow behind his head; he appears conscious, blinking up at her somewhat dumbly with odd grey eyes; his left arm is bent at an odd angle, his right shoulder hunched strangely toward his neck; but his legs appear fine. Blue lips, from exposure to the cold, and pale skin from obvious pain, which is echoed in the tension around his eyes, in the tension of his jaw. A young man, certainly younger than the others she'd glimpsed, the ones who are still yelling at her to stay away from the boy.

Isobela tilts her head to Jetta, who has appeared at her side and caused even more ruckus from the men clinging to trees above the ravine. _"Around the neck_ ," she instructs her largest snake, watching as Jetta slithers forward, head gliding beneath the boy's neck and over, curling around the body at Isobela's bidding. " _Careful of the shoulder and arm. Loosely about the throat, please."_

 _"This one scents fear_ ," Jetta comments casually and her eyes, deep and dark and opaque, trail up the ravine, her mouth open almost tauntingly at the men above.

Isobela follows her gaze. Oh, but the men look _incensed_. She is afraid that they might harm her, but perhaps it is not obvious that she is trying to help.

"I have been remiss," she says suddenly, voice quiet as she redirects her attention to the boy that Jetta is wrapped around. "I mean to help you. I am a healer. My snakes will not harm you."

The boy's eyes widen, but he doesn't say anything - he, too, has begun to tremble. Not capable of speech, perhaps from the cold or the pain or both. Isobela hopes that her impoverished social skills had been adequate enough to communicate with the mundane - and that the mundane did not speak another language than the augurs.

It would certainly present at problem if that were the case.

" _See to it that he does not move_ ," she tells Jetta. Then, to the boy, she says, "Please wait a moment. I will guide your brethren into the valley, and then I shall see to your injuries."

Sighing, gathering her strength and ignoring the way her body seizes as she stands as resolutely as possible in the snow, Isobela looks up at the men again, this time catching the eye of one of the older ones, but still young and shares some of the features of the boy in the snow, who seems to be watching her in confusion now. She clears her throat, hoping that her voice, usually so soft, will carry above the wind and shouting men. "There is a crevice just beyond these trees," she announces, indicating with a tilt of her head the location she is speaking of. She moves, bending her knees and stepping through snow, waving a hand at the trees on the side of the ravine that have created a tunnel of roots into the valley, where often a rush of rain water floods into a pond during the springtime. "You may use this cleft to safely enter the valley."

One of the men, loudly enough that she can hear, demands, "What if this is a trick! We don't know this wrench!"

Isobela blinks up at him. "I would not recommend the method used by the boy," she says plainly, cupping her hands together. "He is in a great deal of pain."

The man who had caught her attention before seems to be the one in charge, as it is at his urging that the other men follow Isobela's instruction - much to her relief. She does not know how much longer she can tolerate this stint in the cold and as the men enter the valley, sliding down the crevice on their backs, she becomes aware that she is wearing inadequate cover around _men_. Her snakes won't let the men harm her, of course, but she will feel better near the warmth of her hearth and properly covered.

She breathes a sigh of relief when the four men have dusted themselves off and curls her arms around her chest again and opens her mouth to repeat that she is a healer - but the young man pushes forward, face set with tension.

"Release my brother from the clutches of your beast," he demands.

"I cannot," Isobela tells him.

His nostrils flare, a muscle in the sharpness of his jaw ticking. His hand settles over the fine hilt of the sword at his hip and Isobela's spine stiffens. "I am not in the practice of negotiating for hostages, but in the case of my brother-"

She wrinkles her nose. "He is not a _hostage_ ," she protests. "He needs healing. Jetta will not be removed until I am certain that he has not sustained any injury to his neck. I am not sure if you are aware, but an examination must be conducted before any healing-"

The young man drops his hand. "You're a healer." He sounds incredibly flabbergasted, as if such a thing was beyond his comprehension.

 _Do the mundane not have healers? Or…do they not believe that augurs can heal_? Both thoughts make Isobela feel sad.

"I am," she confirms, tone subdued. She is thrown by the many moods he has displayed - concern, anger, defensiveness, now confusion. He may be handsome, but Isobela does not appreciate his mannerisms, or at least the ones he has so readily displayed.

Though - perhaps it is simply _her_. Perhaps Isobela inspires aggression from all who cross her path. The villagers do not like her, and neither do these men. They all think her evil and none seem to care how that might make her feel. Still, she is a healer - and there is someone in need, so she cannot let her own emotions get in the way.

"And what of the snakes?"

Isobela frowns, reaching up to pet Toree absently. "My familiars," she answers simply, wary of giving too much information away. She looks back to the boy in the snow, avoiding the eyes of the young man in front of her. "Truly, your brother is in pain. May I be permitted to heal him? I-I offer the warmth of my hearth to you and your companions."

When he nods - expression still twisted in confusion - Isobela's stilted composure collapses and, without much thought, she waves her hand at her snake and the boy, pulling on Jetta's familiar energy so her magic can latch onto the serpent. Jetta and the boy, still entwined, rise from the snow, pulled by invisible strings and guided by the will of Isobela's mind. She knows that such a task would have been challenging before the ritual, but even with the sting of her magic protesting at too-soon use, it is _easy_ to transport the boy across the snow without moving his body and furthering his injuries. She sends Jetta and the boy ahead of her, placing his body on her tiny cot and snapping her fingers, willing the fire of the hearth to burn warmer.

The belated steps of soldiers follow, crunching through the snow with heavy boots.

* * *

 **A/N: Just – before the next chapter, if it wasn't obvious before, Isobela is blonde. Like,** ** _very_** **blonde. Like, the kind of blonde that Luna Lovegood is, like** ** _that blonde_** **. I have a reason for this. These people are in Norway. Kind of. At the very least, a country modeled after Norway – except for the Elric House, which has migrated and conquered from an empire sort of like Rome? I've completely bastardized the entirety of European history. Roll with it. She's super blonde for a reason. So.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~Rae**


	7. Six: The Healer

**Six – The Healer**

Edvard tightens his jaw, lest he forget himself and allow his mouth to gape open as he watches the girl - young woman - effortlessly move his brother. With magic. With nothing more than a wave of a fine-boned hand and a thought. With, apparently, good intentions, which Edvard was hesitant to believe in simply because of all the things he'd heard about augurs and which he would be cautious of until proven wrong, curious about the culture or not.

 _And then there's the snake wrapped around his brother_.

A huge beast, easily twelve spans of the hand and thicker than the grasp of a full grown man, it's shiny black tail firmly encircling the spare heir of the House of Elric. The danger was clear. Just one flex of that coil, and the weight of the crown would fall to Ealice should anything happen to Edvard.

Which given that the girl _spoke_ to the snakes - all _four_ of them, each appearing more lethal than the last - and Edvard didn't even know augurs could _do_ such a thing - seemed more and more likely. The deep-seated instincts in Edvard's mind indicate that the girl is trouble, that she is dangerous, and that Edvard and all of his knights would be horribly outmatched if it came to blows. This was true of all augurs, of course, regardless of age or size or gender and it was the root cause of the tensions from the last civil war of his country. The augurs were simply _more_. They accessed an ancient power that even Kings could not hope to command - and they did so by birthright.

 _By God, just what did he get himself into, accepting this mission_? Was this risk of confronting the augurs on their own territory about the mere rumors of a Cursed Child worth the lives of Knights of Nordalta? Worth the lives of Princes?

Watching this show of easy power, Edvard isn't sure. Not one wit.

He says as much to Carlisle as the knights rally enough from the shock of the past ten minutes and follow the girl to the burrow in the ground that was evidently her home. Carlisle graces him with a guarded glance, frown slashing his face with gravitas. "Time will tell, my Lord."

Edvard grimaces. The girl _said_ she was a healer and as she was clearly magical, Edvard supposed he would give her the benefit of the doubt - for the sake of peace between humans and augurs, if nothing else. As a man who would one day be King, and as a man privy to his father's thoughts of the augurs as a whole, Edvard would give that much and nothing less unless it became apparent that the girl's intentions weren't honorable.

And if she were sinister, then Edvard supposed he would try his luck at besting magic with blade.

Though, it would surely be a shame. The girl possessed an ethereal comeliness that far outshone even the most refined ladies and courtesans at the castle, even shrouded in what hardly passes as a rag that dangles limply to her knees, stained with years of dirt and worn thin, evidence of mending apparent in the odd pattern of stitches across the obviously rough fabric. The strikingly vivid glow of eyes the shade of exotic orchids paired with fair skin and the graceful slope of her swan-like neck set something alight in Edvard's stomach - something that he pushed away with vehemence.

He could not lust after that which he could not trust. This was a lesson his King had hammered into his mind with a blunt mallet. Edvard would not break this rule under any exceptions.

Thoughts firmed against whatever bewitching the girl might wield against his will, Edvard scowls and troops into the burrow, his eyes adjusting to the small, dark space, his head hunched to avoid the low ceiling. A moue of distaste twists his lips. Dirt walls and dirt floors, a single crude window shuttered with thick, cloudy glass, a stack of hay and feathers and fabric that makes a barely-passable cot, and a roughly carved hearth that looks more like the gaping maw of a hell-beast than a place to warm the hovel. Edvard had never seen such accommodations in his life. Not even the most poverty-stricken commoners lived like _this_.

His lips press together as he watches the girl levitate his brother onto the cot with a gentleness that belies her apparent station in life. He and his knights are crowded at the doorway simply by the virtue that they are large and the hovel is small; Edvard doesn't imagine it would take more than two paces in any direction to touch another wall and that means that though he has only stepped a few feet into the girl's burrow, he is nearer to the hearth than any of his party.

Did all augurs live in such a way? Edvard recalled that the augurs were people of Clans, but he also knew from stories told by his father that they typically lived in longhouses, not unlike the common people. Had that changed after the war? Was this the result of the banishment of the augurs to this village of Sassa?

Kneeling at the side of the cot, the girl makes an odd noise, tongue pressed against her teeth. A hiss that is met with a reply from the black snake wrapped around Emett. The massive creature unbinds itself, slithering from beneath his brother's body and butting its head against the girl's exposed arms. When the girl makes another sound, this time the tone distinctly dismissive, it occurs to Edvard that the snake had just _admonished_ her - for she very clearly was not dressed for the weather and even in the limited light provided by the hearth, Edvard could clearly see the fine tremble of her thin frame, the angry flush on the soles of her feet.

A pang of an odd emotion rattles him. Pity. And guilt. It was _his_ fault that she had ran out of her home so abruptly, wasn't it? He and his knights, who had made such a racket when Emett had fallen and who had grown more alarmed with that devilish white snake had darted about the snow, swiftly followed by the barefoot girl, silvery hair flying behind her as she ran toward the scene.

They must have frightened her a great deal. And yet, even with her inhabitable home, she still retained some semblance of poise. Edvard didn't think any of the court ladies would be half as courageous, surrounded by strange men and clearly living alone.

 _But then,_ he reconsiders pensively. _But then this girl has magic. What should she have to fear?_

Edvard isn't sure what to think and that silences his tongue - and, evidently, the thoughts of his men. He's sure they are all sharing the same bout of pondering, faced with this circumstance as they are. At the very least, he notes that they are all on edge, surrounding him at all sides as the cold winter air blows through the open door.

The girl makes another sound, a soft hum as she peers at his brother. Emett, very much unlike himself, has not said a word throughout this entire ordeal, though he watches the girl with wide eyes as she spreads her fingers over his chest, hovering her palms over his body as they glow with a soft white light. She blinks when Emett shivers, her focus broken as gooseflesh ripples across her skin.

She stands and edges past the knights, shutting the door with a strain of effort, then looking at the hearth with determination. A snap of her fingers, and the fire flares from embers with a roar, heat suffusing the hovel with surprising speed. Then she says, with her voice barely above a whisper, "He has not sustained life threatening injuries, though I imagine his head will hurt a bit for the next few days." She pauses, chewing on her lip. "If you permit me to heal him by augur means, his discomfort will be reduced to only a few hours."

Skepticism creeps into Edvard's tone. "You can do that?"

His eyes flicker around her home, settling on a stone mortar that might be eras older than Edvard with doubt and next to it, an assortment of clay pots and chunky glass jars, each filled with leaves, roots, and petals; some are vaguely familiar to him, the sort of plants he has seen used by physicians at the castle, but others are odd, foreign. How would he know that the girl would not curse his brother? She said she was a healer and there was proof enough in her bearing, but surely there was a _reason_ she lived in this hovel, clearly removed from the village.

Another risk Edvard wasn't sure he should take - but he would be King. And Kings did not hesitate. Nor did they allow their compatriots to suffer needlessly.

"Do as you will," he says, watching as tension bleeds from the girl's face, only to return as he next speaks. "But you will vocalize your actions. I won't be tricked."

A slash of hurt dims the spark in her oddly-hued eyes. "I would never harm one that I promised to heal. It would be a disgrace to the art and to the magic. But I will agree to your terms," she tells him, subdued but agreeably earnest. "He should not have to suffer for longer than necessary."

Edvard immediately feels like an absolute berk.

 **oOo**

The feeling doesn't go away.

 **oOo**

Edvard listens as the girl - Isobela, though no surname is offered in her haste to begin the healing arts - describes each step of what she is doing, the sharp bone of her wrist twisting with each grind of the pestle. A hidden strength of sorts, revealed in the deftness of her slim hands as she rips leaves from spiny stems and adds them to the mixture, intoning exactly what she is using and how it is beneficial to his brother. Edvard has stationed himself near her workstation, between Emett and the hearth, where an assortment of snakes have curled against cracked slabs of thin rock.

He keeps an eye on the snakes and an eye on the girl - not sure of which he should be more weary.

"Water," Isobela announces, tipping one of the heavy glass jars just enough to slosh clear, painstakingly filtered water into the small, round black pot that Edvard is hard-pressed not to describe as a _cauldron._ She then adds the ingredients she has ground into a tacky powder, stirring the contents of the pot until, as far as Edvard can tell, she has made a paste. "The marigold and elderberry must be boiled to release the healing properties that will combine with the treatment…"

Edvard nods, absent. The girl has pushed her stringy silver-blonde hair behind her ear, revealing the delicate point at the top that belies her true nature. He has never seen such evidence so close before and finds it jarring. She is alien to him. Strange. Unnatural, perhaps.

And then, so causally that Edvard's response is extremely delayed, Isobela picks up a narrow knife boasting a wicked curve with three points of serration at the end and presses the knife against her wrist, counting the drops of her blood that drip into the cauldron aloud. For his benefit, he assumes, though the gesture is _completely_ undercut because she had just _sliced her wrist open_.

"What are you doing?" he barks, moving toward her abruptly enough that she drops the knife, her brows furrowed in confusion. The metal glances off the wooden table and his knights cluster around the girl, pushing against her, incorrectly perceiving the threat.

Behind him, the snakes hiss - angry and surely rearing up to capture his flesh with their fangs.

"I-It's part of the potion!" she says, voice desperately high, the panic evident on her face as she registers the situation. Eyes wide, she hisses something to the snakes, and they hiss back, and her desperation grows, this time marked by tears forming on the waterline of her eye. "I-I didn't - Please! Please, don't -"

"By the Gods, you're an idiot, brother," Emett says drolly from the cot, his head turned toward the congregation of bodies around the hearth, his expression caught between boredom and pain, his tone as haughty as usual, much to Edvard's relief. "Have you not read any of the tomes? The witches use blood as a healing medium in their practices, you fool. Magic healing requires sacrifice. She has to make the magic work somehow. Even _I_ know that."

Edvard's lips press together and, shooting a hard look to Carlisle, he waves the knights away from the girl, who is clearly - and disturbingly - shaken by the ordeal. By the direct contact of men? Would Ealice respond the same way? Edvard doubted it; Isobela's reaction to the past several moments had been, in a word, _extreme_. Something wrought of fear.

 _Had something happened…?_

An unthinkable thought - Edvard is probably wrong. He does sometimes gauge reactions incorrectly.

"I apologize," he says stiffly, taking a deliberate step back. "I misunderstood. We did not mean to frighten you."

Around his boots, the snakes slither around their mistress, the deadly white one coiling directly up her leg, while the large one - Jetta, she'd said - weaves a loose circle, completed by the gray-scaled serpent. The small, brightly-colored one around her neck bumps Isobela's jaw, purple tongue flicking out almost reassuringly. They each hiss, menacing noises that - incongruously - seem to _soothe_ the healer. She responds to them with her head cast down, shoulders drawn up to her elfin ears.

"The fault is mine," says the girl. "I did not s-speak of my actions-"

"Oh, let him own up to his mistakes, girl," Emett pipes up. "Would serve him right."

Edvard closes his eyes briefly. He is still so very tired and very obviously not prepared for the situation he's found himself in, not in the slightest. And he is minutely ashamed to have scared a slip of a girl who was only seeking to help him - he and his knights, all save Emett, have made a grave misstep. He isn't sure how to fix it, or if he should. After Isobela healed his brother, he didn't expect to be in her presence for much longer and, at this point, the sinking stone in his stomach tells him that he would do more harm than good.

"There is no fault here, healer. I have already claimed responsibility for the misunderstanding. Please, continue."

She nods and turns back to the cauldron, her hands shaking with fine, barely-detectable tremors as she resumes her murmuring about the potion, snapping her finger over the cauldron to - evidently - boil the water. She stirs the potion with only her finger tracing the edge of the pot, the steam heating the skin to a vibrant pink, such a sharp contrast to her pallid skin.

Edvard feels even worse - the girl is still _cold_ , but does not think of her own comfort. The guilt he felt earlier doubles.

He watches with a heavy brow as she cools the potion, then transfers the contents into another clunky glass, hissing something to her serpents so they will move away from her feet and allow her freedom of movement. The two larger ones slink back to the hearth, but the white one with the flared hood remains around her ankle, its reddish eyes locked on Edvard with a calculating sort of intelligence. The snake doesn't trust him.

 _For good reason, apparently_

"Isobela, is it?" Emett inquires as the girl kneels at his side again.

"Aye."

"Live here all alone, then? Or not so alone. You've all those snakes at your beck and call," his brother observes, displaying an appalling skill of insight that Edvard didn't know ran in Emett' veins. "I've heard that's a bit of a rare skill. Is that true?"

From his perspective, Edvard cannot see the girl's face - but he can see the distinct tightening of slender muscles pulling taut at the shoulders. He didn't expect that. Had Emett stumbled upon something the girl would rather remain hidden? Interesting.

"There have been many serpent-speakers," she replies.

Emett eyes her, then says cryptically, "Yes, there have _been_."

Edvard scowls. It was rare that his younger, brasher brother knew something he did not - and even for Edvard's curiosities about the augurs, he hadn't been aware that his brother was equally as curious. Or _more_ curious and better informed. Odd, that. Edvard had assumed - based on how Emett speaks of the augurs, which is typically with a lack of respect for people who are, at large, considered _holy humans_ across the lands - that Emett had no care for the augurs. He's just called the girl a witch, after all, and Edvard would never think to speak such blatant disrespect.

And yet, his blunt sibling had figured something out that eluded the heir apparent.

Edvard suspects that his younger siblings have been conspiring intelligence behind the backs of court. How very like _twins_ to conjure trouble a step below treason and heresy.

"Please, drink all of this."

"It's foul. I thought you said this had flowers and berries in it? Most unpleasant."

The girl does not respond, but rather wordlessly summons her forgotten knife, which snaps into her hand at an alarming speed - and more alarming is her _second_ action of bloodletting as she draws two lines up her first and second fingers, from root to tip. She places the knife at her side, then begins drawing blood directly onto his brother's skin, around the ball of his shoulder and the odd jut of his opposite arm. Then, murmuring in a language that rushes in ambivalent sound around Edvard's ears, she pinches her fingers together, twisting them oddly as her voice grows. She claps her hands together and her blood begins to glow, a pink tint of color sinking beneath Emett' skin just as she clamps her hands down on his shoulder - pushing - a low _snap_ as the shoulder pops into place - then her hands are on his forearm, gripping in two places, her voice still growing - another push and _snap_ \- and Emett grits his teeth, groaning at the pain as she removes her hands from his body.

The healer exhales heavily, her white snake slinking around her forearm to lick at the wounds she had inflicted on herself. She hisses, a supplicant noise, then turns her attention to Emett again, this time inquiring to any other aches he feels. He mentions his head, and she replies that the potion will heal the superficial wound by the morrow.

Edvard is thunderstruck. He'd never imagined that he would see something like _that_ in his life - and such _efficiency_. Emett would be perfectly fine tomorrow, free of any pain by the morning. The physicians at the castle would never hope for such quick - and self-evident - results.

Edvard's mind races and he must forcibly remind himself that he has a _mission_ from his King to complete before he can even begin contemplating such a complex move as integrating the healing practices of the augurs into the daily life of Nordalta.

But the idea is heady.

 _All the problems he could solve by something that one girl, hardly even of age, can do in with such little effort._


	8. Seven: The Revelation

**Seven – The Revelation**

Snakes are not particularly _kind_ creatures, but they are possessive and protective of what they possess, which Isobela has benefited from more times than she can possibly recall. As much as she considers the snakes to be her _family_ , they consider _her_ to be _theirs_. There are many things that have the ability to bind living creatures, many connections of shelter and food that inevitably lead to love and snakes, who value heat and fresh kill more than most common beasts, are no exception. Isobela has no doubts that her snakes love her.

She merely wishes that they might be less hostile about that love.

Isobela is the only one who can hear the snakes, so the content of the conversation is more appalling than worrisome, especially as she cannot truly spare a moment to track the exact phrases hissed between the fangs of her family. She is preoccupied with cleaning the blood from Sir Emett' skin and confirming that her healing efforts had not gone amiss, her hands fluttering to bespell with the crisp, jabbing contortion of her hands that draws magic from her veins. She is _busy_ and her snakes have all congregated to the hearth, all save Toree, and the intimidation of their presence has kept the men further away from the warm fire than Isobela had originally intended. She would chide her snakes their behavior - but she is _busy_.

Though some words do reach her ears and leave her brow furrowed in confusion. So often it seems that her snakes simply know more of the world than she. And they are, by far, more aggressive that Isobela could ever hope to be, even Toree who is the youngest and, perhaps because of Isobela's influence, the least inclined to negative actions.

" _The cretin underestimate the hatchling."_ Serpico.

 _"They_ dare _!"_ Jetta.

 _"This one will perform a mighty education to correct that notion! To underestimate the hatchling is to court death!"_ And Ingar, who had departed from her side after healing the bloody slices along her arm and hand, the sting of his venom closing the wounds far better than Isobela would have the capacity to do.

Her snakes are being outright _fanatical_ and Isobela isnt' sure what can be done. They know not to bite, as they understand that would put her in greater danger, but the hostility certainly isn't easing the tension from her shoulders, is it? She would have to trust that their behavior would remain protective rather than overtly provocative. And then, Jetta's low tones, grudging and odd, slinks over Isobela's concentration.

 _"The cedar scented one lusts."_

Isobela flinches, hands paused as she hears this. She wants to ask Jetta what she meant by lust, but now is not the time, not with Serpico egging the conversation forward in such a way, fanning the flames, though perhaps not intentionally. Sir Emett, who has relaxed into a floating state of near-sleep stirs in the absence of her magic, which recedes back into Isobela's veins the moment her focus is broken. She waves a hand over his body again, satisfied that he will recover well.

"You require rest and water to recover from your ordeal," she says to Sir Emett in a low murmur, aware that the other men are attentive to her speech, even as they cringe from the hissing of her snakes. Hands on swords, scowls on faces. Distrust.

She is treading softly, so softly. She does not want the men to cluster around her _again_ \- it had been terrifying and she could only think of Stephen's heavy weight pressing her into the snow, the very real fear of violation locking her knees together. Isobela is grateful to _this_ man, however. Sir Emett, though injured, had dispersed the tension with only a few mutters, most of them oddly insightful for a mundane to make. She does not know what might have happened had Sir Emett _not_ interfered - which is why Isobela latches onto the conversation of her snakes as they continue to mention a cedar-scented man smelling of _lust_. The very notion frightens her, as does the realization that she had been terribly foolish, inviting all these _men_ into her home, where she is _alone_ and too far from the village and-

 _"The cedar scented one will be this one's first victim!"_

 _"And this one's second!"_ There is a snap of fangs, no louder than the crackle of wood on fire, but it is swiftly followed by the slide of boot against dirt as the men shuffle closer to the door, pressed against the far corner of her hovel. _"Fear. It is repugnant."_

 _"This one expects nothing less of cretin!"_

 _Oh, Ingar,_ Isobela sighs deeply, casting a glance over her shoulder to watch the albino snake flare his hood, upper body swaying to and fro, to and fro. A threatening stance, to be sure, and one he is clearly eager to follow through. He is most instinctive and most difficult to soothe.

 **oOo**

The first words Isobela had heard from Ingar had been, in retrospect, quite telling to his acerbic personality.

It had been her eleventh summer and quite hot. Isobela had struggled to carry water from the river in leaking goat skin flask the Crone had bequeathed her, body aching from the bruises of rocks thrown by the villagers the day previous. She was almost certain that her ankle had been twisted - or worse - as it still ached from the cold even years later, as if it had not healed quite right. She had not been looking where she was going, too preoccupied with the task of keeping water within the flask, which was a losing battle; she had tried everything, from nudging her magic against the goat skin, to placing her mouth beneath the leak, but either way she lost more water than she could carry. Her shift dress stuck to the skin of her chest and back, her hair a heavy knot at the back of her head, and the flask dripping a trail of water behind her. Her goal of getting back to her home to place the water in a large clay pot to keep her stores up would be a task that would take all day - if only she were strong enough to carry the _pot_ to the river…

And then, a sibilant voice with a tinge of male arrogance creeping from the trees. " _A single strike and this one will be satisfied. The blood of this cretin will be most delicious. Yes, yes. Such hunger."_

Isobela had spun on her heel, dropping the flask at her feet. Warm water splashed against her bare toes as the goatskin broke, spilling out across the dirt and browning grass in a flood. Her eyes had widened in alarm, searching for the voice - a familiar cadence, like her Toree, but vicious -

The snake was not much larger than her viper, though the pink tint to the white scales on his underbelly indicate the snake's youth, at least an entire summer younger than her berry-bright companion. Probably no more than a hatchling a few weeks old - and already such _aggression_. Isobela has not seen a snake of this breed before, which leads her to the immediate belief that it is a magical breed, or perhaps a cast-off from the mundane markets that march around the forest of Sassa every second season. She is not sure if the snake's bloodthirst is inherent in his breed, but she has no intentions of becoming the tiny creature's next meal, even if he _could_ kill her with poison before her magic fought off the infection.

Isobela swallows hard, the dry passage of her throat making her tongue feel too large for her mouth, clumsy beside her teeth. She needs _water_ and shelter from this heat, but more than that, she needs to be assured that this snake will not _hurt_ her or anyone in the village. " _There are more than enough mice in the forest_ ," she announces, staring at the snake with unwavering orchid eyes. _"You have no need to hunt what would kill you first. Be gone!"_

 _"A speaking cretin!_ " replies the snake, flared-hooded head rising higher from the forest floor as the snake slinks further into the sun. The white scales are _better_ than simple white; in the sunshine, there is a faint opalescent sheen that instantly confirms Isobela's notion that the sake was magical in some way. As he opens his mouth and brandishes long fangs in her direction, she watches the drip of venom with a keen eye, noting that it was much more clear than Toree's and likely that much more dangerous.

 _"I am not cretin,_ " she corrects warily, holding her ground as the snake slips forward another foot, staring at her with imperious eyes the very color of bleeding red berries. _"I am an augur and- and you are in my territory."_

The snake flicks his tongue. " _This one scents another cold-blood on the speaking cretin."_

 _"I am_ not _cretin-"_

The snake hisses. _"The speaking cretin_ dares _to eat cold-bloods! The cretin will pay!"_

Isobela takes several steps backward, appalled. " _I don't eat snakes! I could never! You're smelling my familiar, Toree!"_

This gives the snake pause, his head tilting in obvious consideration. " _Familiar for…cretin? Has that one any pride? Disgrace! Shame!"_

" _I take very good care of Toree,"_ Isobela says defensively, licking her dry lips.

It is usually true, though this summer was proving a bit of challenge between her injuries and the breathtaking heat. Isobela _did_ take care of Toree and she _would_ take care of Toree, but they both needed water and soon. Had Isobela any family, she might have ventured to the river in the night, when the heat hid behind the mountains; another set of hands could carry a torch so that Isobela could see in the darkness, and then she would have no trouble transporting water. But Isobela does not have a family and Toree is depending on Isobela to bring water back to their home. She wants to cry at the impossibility of the task, but she does not think her body has any moisture to spare; even her skin, usually so snowy-soft, is flaking and red from the sun…

" _This one does not have a clutch,_ " says the snake. _"This one will join yours."_

Isobela blinks. She had lost track of the moment, her head spinning as fast as the clouds above. The snake was talking about - about a clutch? A family? She cannot fathom how the snake had gone from such hostility to inviting himself into her home, but she is beyond questioning it at the moment. She would never understand the way the mind of a snake worked.

 _"That's alright, I suppose."_

If it were possible for a snake to roll its eyes, then _this_ snake had just done so, as is evident from his tone as he slithers forward, avoiding the puddle of drying mud beneath the broken goatskin flask. " _This one does not need your permission, speaking cretin._ "

Isobela wrinkles her nose. This snake's sheer arrogance is very alarming, even off putting. But she would not turn him away. One day, she would be a healer and it would be her great task to set things to right - and Isobela did not see why welcoming this snake into her heart with the hopes of taming his prickly personality should be any different. It would be another mouth to feed and another body to water, but Isobela would figure it out, as she always did.

 _"You will be called Ingar,"_ she tells the snake, reaching down to gather the smooth white scales into her hands, lips twisting with pervasive affection for this ghastly creature that has quite suddenly become hers. _"Because you think you're so great. Perhaps the name will remind you of humility."_

" _This one will not argue such an appropriate naming, for this one is great, indeed!"_

 **oOo**

Ingar is most protective.

 **oOo**

" _Ingar, you will cease this baiting. They do not understand our ways,"_ Isobela insists, rising from her knees with a sharp wince as her blood rushes back into her feet and toes. She is still cold and has compounded the exhaustion of the previous night's ritual with an outpouring of magic for healing Sir Emett; her body is quick to remind her of this physical compromise as she sways where she stands, gooseflesh rippling over her shoulders, her spine.

She reaches for her threadbare winter cloak and drapes it over her simple shift, feeling decidedly _inane_ for pairing the two together, but it is better than remaining in clothing that should be reserved for her future husband's eyes alone and it isn't as if she can request privacy to _change_ into more appropriate attire. These men had nowhere else to go for the moment and she still had obligations to their comfort, at the very least the extension of common refreshment.

 _"The cretin understand that the hatchling is fertile and that is enough for this one!"_

 _"Ingar…"_

 _"That one is right,"_ says Jetta. " _This one has seen male cretin and they think only of mating. These ones will not allow the speaker to befall such fate."_

Isobela is heartened by the dedication her snakes show for her safety, even though the expression of their loyalty is disconcerting - and she smiles, ignoring the incredulous stares Sir Emett' brother as she scratches her nails beneath Jetta's jaws, around Ingar's flared hood, and over the back curve of Serpico's coils. Toree tightens comfortingly around her neck, flicking a tongue against her cheek as Isobela strives for balance on nerve-deadened feet. She looks to her toes - angry, blistering red, which is a good sign that the flow of her lifeblood has not been hampered by the cold.

Drawing her shoulders back, Isobela turns and faces the men. "Please, help yourself to my stores of water and nutrient," she says, gesturing to the few clay pots of nuts over the hearth and the woven basket of old bread, roots, and potatoes on the other side of the hearth. The jar of melted snow she collected the day before has melted into water. "It is not much, but what I have is yours while you collect your energy to continue your journey."

"No meat?" asks one of the men.

Isobela's expression pinches. "I do not partake the flesh of animals," she says cautiously, unbidden fear rising through her body. She did not want to - to _disappoint_ these men for fear that they might appraise themselves of other pleasures that she _would not offer_. Her fists clench as she surveys their expressions. "There are many hares in the forest, if you are quick with a blade or bow."

"Your generosity is more than enough," says the brother of Sir Emett, shooting a quelling look to the men that seem to defer to him, in spite of his obvious youth. "Is it not, Carlisle?"

"Aye, Sire."

 _Sire._

Isobela's eyes widen. She had thought that the men were knights - the armor strapped to their backs, the swords on their hips, the solid bulk of their bodies were all abundant clues. But to hear that one was a called _Sire_ \- and perhaps Sir Emett was also of an elevated position, too - well, Isobela is rather abruptly aware of how meager her offerings truly are, of how she should be shamed by her home, and by her status as an orphan. She may be the Last Heir of the Solvej Clan, but she is no better than a lowborn peasant.

Her _audacity_ to entertain nobles!

She restrains her expression, merely stepping aside to allow the men to rummage through her offerings, watching them warily with her spine stiff. Toree notices and nudges at her jaw. " _Speaker. Your pulse races._ "

" _Have these cretin upset the hatchling?"_

 _"They are cretin - that they exist is enough to upset."_

Isobela turns her head in such a way that her hair falls over her face. " _They are nobles. It is very important that each of you stay your fangs. I am…I cannot host them indefinitely and they shall leave soon and we shall be safe again."_

Toree's triangular head raises to eye level. " _Speaker, do you know why these mundane were in the forest?_ "

" _No…"_

And indeed - now that it has been pointed out - Isobela is rendered mute by the realization that _mundane men where in the forest of Sassa_ , in a forest fortified by magical barriers designed to confuse mundanes and hide the village from attack. Isobela would know, as the Crone had told her upon her entrance to womanhood, as it was _Isobela's_ responsibility to replenish the magic of the forest with her womanly blood each year now that she was able, as the other augur women in the village did not have the same ties to the land and the protections were weakening. Since Isobela had been in charge of this task, the magic in the forest had been especially strong.

Which means that these mundane men should _not_ have been able to pass through the fogs.

Isobela bites her lips, studying the men silently again. Sir Emett has fallen asleep and his brother is conversing in low tones with the most elder of the group - Carlisle - while the remaining men eat their fill of her modest collection of food. She does not think that they are darkly motivated against the village, as they had not mentioned Sassa, but she couldn't be sure. She understood men less than she understood snakes and she was extremely weary of _these_ men with their weapons and number.

 _And at least two of these men are higher nobles._

What could they possibly be doing in Sassa?

And then -

"Forgive me," says Sir Emett's brother, giving Carlisle his back as he stares directly into Isobela's eyes, the astonishing grey chromatic of his gaze stilling her heart for just a beat. "Though you have offered your skillful abilities, your hearth, and your accommodations, it occurs to me that I have not properly introduced myself. I am Edvard of the House of Elric, First Knight of House Elric of Nordalta, and Crown Prince. My knights and I are extremely gratified…"

Isobela's breath catches.

 _Elric_. House of Elric. _Crown Prince_ of the House of Elric -

Elric - good King Elric, whose actions led to the massacre of the Clan of Solvej, the death of her family, the misfortune of her life -

 _Elric_.

"We have ventured to the village of Sassa on a mission to ascertain the credentials of a rather peculiar report that has been received by King Perseus Elric _," Prince_ Edvard continues, evidently not noticing that all of the blood has left Isobela's face or willfully ignoring that she has become immobile in the face of such revelations. "I say, have you heard of someone in the village called the Cursed Child? Perhaps the Cursed Child of Sassa? Any information you have on this individual would be most appreciated by the crown…"

 _By the Gods_.

These men - these knights - _this Prince_ was after _her_.

Toree hisses softly in her ear, but for the first time in her life, Isobela cannot understand what her familiar is saying. The panicked rush of sound is drowning out all save for her heartbeat.


	9. Eight: The Village

**Eight – The Village**

By the time the winter sun has risen high in the sky, presiding over the forest of Sassa with a detached blanket of minute warmth, Edvard and his knights have been ushered out of the healer's hovel of a home - politely, even with the snakes hissing at her feet. Edvard is not typically dim; he'd instantly realized that the girl had reacted _negatively_ to his proclamation of royalty.

Perhaps she felt unfit to heal those of royal lineage? Edvard could name a handful of court physicians who had the same hesitation, and though she was talented, it stood to reason that she was alarmed to learn that she had healed a prince of her nation with magic, which was reasonable.

He does not argue, then, when Isobela gently directs the knights out of her home, voice wavering as Emett is aided by Carlisle. "T-the village will have better accommodations, my Lord," she says, eyes downcast. Edvard is interested to note that her eyelashes are not as fair as her hair, rather they are a dusty sort of brown that fans across her cheeks demurely.

Edvard does not think any of the ladies at court could _act_ half as innocent as this girl before him. He thinks she must be truly untouched. The question of her reaction to the knights early was still bothersome, as was her remote location outside of the village borders - there must be a sensible answer to both of his questions and Edvard intends to know those answers, Emett' astonishingly smug expression be damned.

"Where might we be accommodated?" he asks, casting his gaze about the small valley his younger brother had fallen into. Covered in snow and encased by trees, the blunt clearing leads in only two directions; downward, where rushing water can just barely be heard, and upward, where Edvard can see naught but looming, snow-leaden branches and the caps of the Altar mountains. He cannot see the village at all, not even the smoke that would surely rise from chimneys. But then, Isobela's hovel doesn't boast a smoking chimney, either, though he knows that the hearth is quite warm inside. Magic, perhaps, to better protect the village?

An interesting thought. A brilliant defense, one that common villages and the Nordalta castle would benefit from…To be completely hidden…

Isobela's head snaps up, her hair brushing against her cheeks. " _Oh_ ," she breathes, then looks to the small brightly-colored snake that has drifted from her neck. She seems to come to a decision, her expression terse. "Y-you will want to see the Seers, of course. The Crone most especially, my Lord, will be able to answer all of your…inquires."

Emett' brow quirks up - but Edvard doesn't need his brother to tell him how _odd_ that response had been. As if the girl was _forcing_ herself to give up valuable information - or as if she were wary to what the Seers - _Seers_ \- would tell him. Was Isobela hiding something?

 _Did she know something about the Cursed Child?_

His eyes catch on her twisting fingers and he dismisses the thought. She was nervous enough to be before one of her Lords and though she did not have any information herself - _I apologize, my Lord, but I do not think any information I have will be useful to your cause_ \- when he asked her directly about the subject of this quest. He did not think she was capable of lying outright, in any case.

"I see," he says. "Might you lead us to the village, then? I'm afraid my knights and I will be confounded by the residue of magic from your forest."

Isobela blanches, but nods stiffly. She hisses something to her snakes and the two larger ones slither back inside, while the aggressive white one winds around her ankle after she slips worn, brittle-leather boots onto her feet. Idly, Edvard compares his boots to her own; of course, his were much higher quality, but Edvard does not think he has ever seen commoners with boots so old and patched. Did the augurs not need such protections from the weather? It might explain her odd form of dress or the thinness of her winter cloak. She did not seem _bothered_ by the lack of protection as she trudges into the snow, skirting around his knights with all the skittishness of a rabbit.

Edvard follows, pleased by her quick pace up the steep incline out of the valley; her steps are sure, well-accustomed to the climb up the coast of the ravine, and her ungloved hand reaches for a thick root sticking out of the snow, a natural handhold for the final, most-steep steps out of the valley. He copies each move as well as he can, his boots swallowing up the small dents her feet leave in the snow. Outside of the valley, which is very small, Edvard is astounded to realize that they are tasked with traversing _another_ valley, this one much larger, like a bowl - but more than that, he is alarmed to realize that the collapsed framework of a longhouse has been left to rot, the dead center a stone well that looks completely untouched.

Emett voices what Edvard had been wondering. "What _happened_ here?"

"…A fire," Isobela whispers. She does not look at the petrified wood covered in ice and snow. She merely continues forward, finding more natural handholds to assist in climbing out of the valley safely, as if she had done so everyday for years.

But Edvard is still riveted by the fire-ravaged skeleton of what was once surely a great home, easily large enough to shelter a dozen people comfortably. The vegetation around the ruins are still blackened, scarred by violence, and Edvard would wager that the land beneath the snow is equally as slow-healing. He is frozen in his step, unable to imagine a fire so great that not even _magic_ could stop it - and -

"Were there any survivors?" The words pass his lips without his consent. It's an uncouth question, far below his honor as both a man and a prince, but he has a burning desire to _know_. It feels unimaginably important to understand what transpired.

Isobela inhales sharply - audibly. "Just one, my Lord."

 _One_. One survivor.

"Who?"

Isobela turns away, her snakes hissing at the knights with sudden alacrity. Her tone is stilted as she answers, "The Crone will be able to answer all of your queries, my Lord."

 _My Lord_. Edvard doesn't like the way she says it - for some reason, when the healer shows him respect, it feels insurmountably inappropriate, as if he is digging his heel into her spine and demanding she recognize his power over her. Which he isn't and he wouldn't. And her tone is _perfectly level_ \- and yet, it still feels wrong, perhaps because she had only recognized his position after he had seen her magic and he couldn't reconcile a being with that _ease_ of power bowing her head to _him_. Father would say that it is wise for him to recognize this, to understand that the augurs _choose_ to follow the King, even though, should they wish it, the augurs could rule over them all. Edvard hadn't truly comprehended what his King meant by that - until now.

Unsettled, he replies with a belated, "Of course."

Emett rolls his eyes as Carlisle assists him out of the valley, Edvard on their heels to support his brother if necessary. The girl is much more graceful than any of his men, as light on her feet as a doe and nearly as agile, and she waits patiently for them to catch up at the top of the ravine, stroking the raspberry-scaled snake and biting her lip. She does not look to the ruins in the valley. Instead, she gives the charred remains her back and nods through the break in a thin tree line. "This is the most direct route from my home. However, the village and the forest are connected by another path in the forest, which I am sure you must have missed to have fallen down to my valley," she murmurs. "Do mind your step, for the roots sometimes try to ensnare mundane with ill intent."

 _An intelligent tree? A whole forest of them? That certainly explained why they got so lost in the forest_.

The knights heed her word, though, noticing that the trees closer to the village, while smaller, were prickled with odd, long, sharp branches that held no leaves, and that the roots bunched out of the snow in looping bends. Isobela picks through the path delicately, the knights bumbling through narrow spaces behind her. Emett curses loudly when he bangs his head on a low-hanging branch and looks fit to enter a blue-tongued tirade, but he stops short - and Edvard immediately understands why.

The village of Sassa is, in truth, only the loosest definition of a village in that a group of homes are clustered in one area with at least one common space in the middle, which for this village is a stone pit fit for a large bonfire, with logs on three sides. But that is it - and _that_ is being generous.

With a start, Edvard realizes his selfishness - and his ignorance. As a Prince, he was well aware of the struggles of the commoners, of their wrestling of crop and grain as year began to wane and of the illnesses bred by poverty and lack of education. These struggles are that platform on which he hopes to rule, one day to bring an end to the poor lives led by the commonwealth and usher in an era of equality, both social and financial.

But Edvard had forgotten that his land was not comprised of _only_ normal humans - at the most southern edge of the kingdom, long-relinquished to fend for themselves under the supervision of the House of Elric, were an entire collection of people that had been well and truly neglected. Whether the neglect came from fear or superiority, Edvard didn't know.

That the magical people of his realm were left in the cold was the only obvious fact - and Edvard, who thought himself so educated, so aware of all the people in the land that would one day be his, was willfully ignorant to both their struggles and _who_ these people were.

He knew nothing of them, aside from the rumors. Edvard had been born right after the Clans had been sent to the reservation of lands in the south of Nordalta and had seen neither hide nor hair of a witch since; he had not been educated in their beliefs, though he understood them to be pagans; he had not been introduced to their leaders, though he was peripherally certain that his father communicated with them in some way. Edvard's awareness of these people had been limited to the tales children told each other and to the eavesdropping gossip he's heard the servants whispering furiously about in the castle kitchens late at night. To him, the pagans were akin to a made-up tale and he knew that others were content to believe the same.

That his father - his King - was willing to sacrifice these people in order to secure his reign left a sour taste in Edvard's mouth. Politics, he knew, were mostly matters of perception and while Edvard detested politics above all else, he understood the advantages of disavowing an entire population to sooth the nerves of courtiers and Lords. He simply wished it were unnecessary.

Edvard has never seen a village like this one, so poverty stricken that thatched long-houses are held together with little more than pasty-clay, hay, and what has to be the will of magic. The snow has made for a desolate scene, the common walkways between homes trodden with murky mud. Pens for animals in the back of several houses are lopsided, crop gardens are unimaginably sparse, and no light streams from the small, chunky glass windows set near rough-hewn doors. And the people - they are clean and vitalized by the magic in their veins, but they are clearly struggling, cold, and in need of assistance from the crown. Edvard cannot imagine that winter is easy for these people and he is disturbed to realize that _Isobela_ is clearly far worse-off than these impoverished villagers. At least the hide of their boots and cloaks are thick and new and they have access to meat that the girl does not. And - Edvard notices something else _odd_. The villagers that are closest have notices Isobela and his men, but their attention is caught on the girl, their eyes narrowed in distaste, some of the younger children yelping and grabbing - _small rocks_ and _rotten food_ \- as if to - surely not to _throw them_ at the girl?

Why? What possible reason could there be to cast her so far out of the village?

Unless…was it her choice? Did it have something to do with her reaction to men?

Edvard frowns. Why does he _care_? She's but _one girl_.

"The House of Seers is on the far-edge of the village, beyond the ritual fire," says Isobela, raising a slender hand to point to the house in question, which is smaller than most and seems to be better taken care of, at the very least. "Ask to speak to the Crone and one of the Maidens or Mothers will bring you to her."

"What? You're not coming with us?" asks Emett, craning his neck to stare at the girl incredulously. "We can't just walk through this village alone! There's witches! They could undo all the work you did to fix me!"

A strange look crosses Isobela's face and then her chin lifts in a show of determination. "No soul in this village would harm the sons of the good King Elric, nor any in my Lord's party."

Edvard shivers, fighting to keep his expression blank. It sounds distinctly like something his Father would say, like something Ealice would imperiously mutter, but the girl's words are backed by a ripple in the air that he doesn't understand. And when her voice carries on the wind, the villagers do the strangest thing - they stand to attention, faces smoothed of contempt, rocks falling from hands in automatic response. A few villagers, mostly those who look to be Isobela's peers, start muttering to themselves, while the elders bow their heads.

"Then we thank you, healer, for all that you have done to assist us," Edvard says, eager to shake off the strange feeling building in the pit of his stomach.

Isobela's shoulders hunch toward her ears and her face promptly loses all color, leaving the orchid shade of her eyes a touch too vibrant. "Of course, my Lord. May you have…success in your quest," she whispers, her white snake hissing menacingly from her boot. And then, without warning, she ducks back into the copse of trees - much quicker than he expected.

Edvard and his knights cross through the village under the wary stare of a hundred silent pagans.

 **oOo**

He is not sure what he expected of the Seers. When she was younger, Ealice had been fascinated by the idea of the Seers, who were not augur or mundane, but rather removed from both, a neutral party to witness past, present, and future. For the sake of simplicity, Seers were often clumped with pagans because it was _some_ form of magic to see the lines of fate, but they weren't actually magical, which meant that having an interest in them was _acceptable_.

 _It seems scholarly interest in the pagans skipped me over_ , Edvard reflects wryly as a girlish child with curly hair - a Maiden - holds curtains of jewel-dyed fabric open for he and the knights to step through. There are only women in the House of Seers and each one possesses the eerie shade of blue all Seers seem to have, a color that is bright and pure and more true than the blue sky. Eyes that seem to see beyond his soul. Edvard does his level best to not prolong any eye contact, put-off by the clench of his lungs as these Maidens and Mothers examine the knights.

He does not know what they see, exactly, and he does not wish to know.

The knights pass through several rooms of smoking-scents that leave them dizzy until finally they come to a room full of goose-feathered pillows, on which women of several ages are seated upon in a loose semi-circle, each holding a long, tall beeswax candle - except for one. The eldest woman is in the middle, her eyes cloudier than the rest, and her hair pulled from her face in a style of elaborate braids the same shade as the snow on the trees.

She _looks_ at them, silent, and Edvard is unnerved.

The first words he hears from the wizened Crone are not for him - but rather for a woman a handful of years older than him standing near the back of the room with heavily-freckled cheeks and air of anxiety about her. "Rosemary," says the Crone. "Do stop that girl before she does something foolish and bring her to the House. She cannot escape destiny."

Rosemary nods and hurries off into the village with scant hesitation, swinging a cloak over her shoulders.

Edvard steps forward, bowing his head respectfully. "Greetings, Seer. I am-"

"I know who you are, boy," interrupts the Crone. "And I know why you have come."

"Of course."

"But you will find that your journey has yet to begin."

Edvard frowns, exchanging a look of confusion with Carlisle. They have yet to even _begin_? Was their information wrong, then? The Cursed Child of Sassa was - a rumor, a tale to frighten the crown, or something more sinister? No option sounded remotely acceptable. "Pardon, but my King has tasked me with locating and assessing the threat of a particular individual, the Cursed Child of this village. Have you any information to share-"

The Crone smiles and Edvard's words freeze on his tongue. "If your task was to locate the Cursed Child, then you have already done so. If your task was to assess her, then you have already reached a conclusion," says the Crone. "But that is not the journey I speak of, boy. The quest your father sent you on was just the beginning. No, there is a much more significant destiny for you, First Heir of the Great House of Elric, but you cannot complete it alone. That of which you speak is that whom you seek and that whom will be your partner."

Edvard blinks, his mind stuttering, his stomach swooping to his knees. Several things fall into place -

 _His quest is already complete - he has located the Cursed Child - he has assessed the Cursed Child -_

Her. The Cursed Child of Sassa is a _female._

But the only woman he's met - no - the only girl he's met -

 _Isobela_.

" _Isobela_ is the Cursed Child?" Emett bleats, his eyes as wild with disbelief as his voice. "But she's _so nice!_ "

One of the other Seers speaks up. "I think you shall find that the only curse that child has is that of tragedy."

"Indeed," says another. "However the designation of her curse reached your King, you must understand that the girl is not truly cursed with anything but prejudice for the wrongdoings of mundane men, which has taken far more from her than her ancestral home."

Ancestral home - surely not the ruins in the valley - not the valley she lived so close to - but then he recalls what Isobela had said -

 _"What happened here?"_

 _"…A fire."_

 _"Were there any survivors?"_

 _"Just one, my Lord."_

 _One_. One survivor.

Isobela.

"Ancestral home," Edvard repeats, mind racing with what he _does_ know about this village. "You mean to say that she her ancestors were of this village _originally_?"

"By the Gods," Emett murmurs, coming to the same revelation instantaneously. "She must be of the Clan of Solvej. Sassa has always been theirs. Or it was."

"It still is," says a Seer. "The magic in the forest recognizes Isobela as the heir. It is unfortunate that the villagers are quick to forget that their well-being is dependent on her sacrifice."

 _Clan of Solvej? Is that not the Clan that aided Father in the war?_ But Edvard did not have to think about it for very long - he knew of the Clan from his father and he'd been peripherally aware that the Clan had died out some years ago - That had been misinformation, though. The Clan still had one Heir remaining, a slip of a girl with orchid eyes and a reputation that, according to the Seers, was entirely undeserved.

His memory is a good one. Edvard easily recalls the villagers who glared at Isobela - the rotten food and stones in the hands of children - Isobela's evident fear of men - her meager home and scant storage of food - the threadbare quality of her clothes - and his anger surges hot in his chest. He is furious in the way that only a natural born leader can be as he learns about the mistreatment of someone under the protection of his kingdom. No wonder she had been so _frightened_ to learn of who _he_ was - and why she had made such a quick escape once she had pointed the knights in the right direction.

It is _wrong_. He knew very little of her, but even he could understand that the girl was not evil or _cursed._ What had some of the Lords said about the Cursed Child? That her voice would make ears bleed and that the very sight of her would blind men?

 _It's quite the opposite, actually_.

"What do you mean about this journey?" Edvard demands, losing his diplomacy in an instant. "What is the _meaning_ of this? Do not speak to me in riddles, Seer. I demand to know what you have Seen. I demand to know what you meant by _partner_ -"

The Crone smiles again, slowly. "Destiny does not meet the demands of men, not even the demands of princes."

"I am not asking destiny," he counters quickly, bristling with renewed tension borne from the epiphanies revealed so coyly by these Seers. He wants straight _answers_. The day has been too long, his stomach is too empty, his limbs too tired, and he is being led by the nose toward some conclusion that has left him ignorant and wrong-footed. He does not like it _in the slightest_. "I am asking you."

"And I shall say nothing until the other half of this journey is present to hear what fate has shown me. Do have patience, boy, for patience is the virtue of great Kings," she advises serenely. "And a great King you shall be."


	10. Nine: The Crone

**Nine – The Crone**

 _"Prepare yourselves for swift departure,"_ she had told Jetta and Serpico before she led the men into the village, before she pointed them in the direction of the Seers, before she had turned on her heel to disappear into the thicket of snow-dusted trees, heart clogged in her throat as she throws herself between roots and branches.

Before she even truly decided that she had only one viable option to pursue, unduly noting that she was outnumbered, outclassed, and outmatched by a band of trained knights - including _two_ princes - and surely more beyond the forest waiting at the base of the mountains. There was only one thing Isobela could do if she wanted to survive, if she wanted to escape the inevitable persecution for whatever crimes she had committed in her short sixteen winters.

She has to - leave. She must _leave_. And her snakes - especially the larger two - were intelligent enough to understand _why_ \- they would use their prowess, the same prowess bestowed upon all predators, to aid in their escape. Isobela trusted that they would be nestled in the burlap rucksack she so very rarely used, ready to be strapped to her back and carried in the most efficient and speedy method they could collectively think of while still staying _together_. Their family - their clutch - would not be broken by this threat to Isobela's peace in life, even though this threat was very real and her confidence in avoiding it was rather low.

The Knights of Elric were looking for _her_ \- the Cursed Child of Sassa - but they didn't know it _yet_ , so she had to disappear before they realized she was gone. She had to be faster than a Seer's sight. Faster than a knight's boot and blade. Faster than Toree's strike, if such a thing were possible.

The question of _why_ they were looking for her remained _\- how did they hear about her, so removed as Sassa is from mundane ears -_ but Isobela had no intentions of letting herself fall victim to the whims of the crown. She was familiar enough with whispers from other kingdoms that augurs were regularly burned and tortured and _Gods_ knew what else if they displeased the ruling factions. An unkind fate that Isobela was eager to avoid.

She barrels through the last trees at the top of the valley and heaves her body forward, ignoring the sudden absence of ground beneath her feet, bracing herself as her back meets powdery snow as she slides _down, down, down_ , right past the ruins of her familial home, grimacing all the while as snow shimmies beneath her cloak and thin dress _. Very, very cold._ Ingar hisses as he is jarred, wrapped as he is around her ankle, and he tightens his coils in response. Toree mimics him at Isobela's neck, squeezing just shy of too tight.

Her snakes were smart. They had picked up on the urgency and do not distract her as she tumbles back onto her feet, skidding down the next slope with little grace. She does not bother to hide her tracks and does not spare a moment's glance over her shoulder to see if she is being followed. She dares to hope that she might have gotten a lead, an advantage over Sirs Edvard and Emett, dares to hope that her ability to act was convincing enough that they would not suspect her of fleeing until she had already fled.

A heady, dangerous sense of victory seeps through her veins as she stumbles into her burrow, hurriedly crouching near the table by the hearth and reaching for the rucksack, looping the strap over her shoulder and standing with determination. The weight of Jetta and Serpico is considerable and she is very slight, but she does not tarry and she does not care of the burden that will slow her in the forest; rather, she selects the few items that she does not think she will be able to collect while on the run. Rare herbs. Mortar and pestle. Athame. Flint. A spare dress of thick material more agreeable for the weather. A white-bone comb that had survived the fire. Jetta and Serpico shift in the rucksack as she adds these supplies, their coils pushing the delicate items toward the middle-

 _"This one scents the approach of cretin_ ," Jetta says suddenly, her large head peeping over the top of the rucksack, eyes riveted on the view provided by the open door, though she does not need sight for her exceptional sense of smell to alert her to intruders in their territory. _"The rose-matron fate-seer."_

 _Rosemary_ , Isobela's mind supplies readily. Her brow furrows, hands paused as she adjusts the strap to sit more comfortably along her collarbone. _Why would Rosemary be here if the knights have gone to the Crone-_

 _Oh._

Rosemary means to _stop_ Isobela from fleeing.

Her stomach clenches in fright. If Rosemary was sent to retrieve Isobela, then that meant the Crone felt Isobela _could not leave_ \- and she isn't sure what to make of that. It is possible that Isobela had jumped to conclusions, though she doubted it. It is also possible that the Crone had Seen something and required Isobela's presence on a whim, which had certainly happened in the past. But more worrying is the possibility that the Crone had Seen that Isobela would not be able to hide from the knights and had instead plead for swift mercy in Isobela's stead so that her suffering would not be prolonged - which would mean that Isobela's fate as the Cursed Child is _true_ \- that she _is_ cursed -

" _Speaker, you cannot simply stand_ ," Toree hisses, tongue sharp on the point of Isobela's ear, a reprimand. _"You must fight or flee and know that we will remain by your side. But you cannot freeze. You must choose a path."_

 _"The hatchling should fight!"_

 _"These cretin will taste this one's poison before they see the speaker's blood!"_

Isobela makes a snap-second decision - and then her body is in motion, running again, this time with the aim to slip into the forest and hide herself among the fog, perhaps cross the river on the southern-most edge and depart into another kingdom altogether -

"Isobela!"

She falters upon hearing Rosemary's voice and Ingar hisses in irritation as she spins, chest heaving, silvery hair blown across her face, hiding the wildness of her wide eyes, the panic coursing through her veins and the magic itching at her palms. She cannot run from Rosemary, not after all the Mother has done for her, which is more than Isobela can say for anyone save for the Crone. And truly - despairingly - Isobela knows that she cannot outrun her fate. It had not occurred to her before, but it does now; perhaps if she turns herself in, the knights will be less inclined to mount her head upon a spike for the good King Elric. That certainly seems like something both the Crone and Rosemary would advocate for and surely the reason that Rosemary was sent to halt Isobela's progression.

Still, she trembles as Rosemary rushes into the valley, her mind racing with horrifying scenarios. She cannot escape the creep of fear up her spine, the feeling that tells her so thoroughly that she had been foolish to dare to hope, foolish to reach for a life outside of the loneliness she has felt for so long, foolish to think that she could learn her magic by herself and make something out of the unfortunate circumstances that have tainted her thus far. And deeper than that, she worries for her snakes, of what might become of them should something happen to her.

She has half a mind to pull the rucksack from her body and send her snakes into the forest without her - but Rosemary must have Seen her come to that decision, for the Mother shakes her head firmly. "No, bring your familiars with you. Believe me, girl, you will want them," she says as soon as she is within hearing distance. "The Crone sent me to retrieve you before you do something so silly as run away from your home."

"They know about me," Isobela says in reply, voice reedy and thin. "They mean to sit me upon a pyre or shear the hair from my scalp-"

Rosemary's face twists in revulsion. "What have those peers of yours been telling you? Where have you ever heard such atrocities, Isobela?"

"It is common knowledge that other kingdoms - on the continent - that augurs -"

"Perhaps," Rosemary concedes with a deep frown. "But not in Nordalta and not under the rule of the good King Elric. Do not allow these phobic ponderings to guide you from this place. No harm shall come to you or yours, of this I can promise. The Crone would not have sent me otherwise. She is much to fond of you, as am I."

Tears burn in Isobela's eyes as she considers these truths - for all know that Seers cannot lie - turning the words around in her mind as she struggles to calm herself. Her snakes are curiously silent and she understands in an instant that this possibility had not occurred to them, either. In truth, Isobela's panic had been hasty, fueled by the taunting tails of Stephen and the other village children for as long as Isobela can remember; each stone thrown had been paired with a barb on the treatment of augurs in other lands, the implicit threat that this too could be Isobela's fate had she not lived in Sassa.

The day has been so long, so cold, so draining. And Isobela can still feel the burn of Toree's poison in the crease of her wrists, her elbows, the fever building in her head as the ritual continues to reconcile within her body. The absolute last thing Isobela _needed_ was to be excited by all this stress.

"What has she Seen?" she whispers, fingers threaded together, knuckles as white as her face. "What will become of me?"

"Nothing that has not been coming." Rosemary offers her hand, steady and sure and Isobela latches on to her cool, confident grip, feeling so very young. The assurance, though, has fallen flat; Isobela's life had been a series of karmic judgments, as far as she is concerned, and she is not sure if _what is coming_ will be better or worse than what has come before. But Rosemary seems so _sure_.

Breathing deep to steady herself, Isobela nods and moves to follow the Mother up the two inclines of the valley, their pace sedate in comparison to Isobela's previous haste. This gives her time to at least push her nerves away from the forefront of her mind, time to calm the jagged edges of magic swelling beneath her skin, and time enough to ease her snakes into some semblance of order. She reminds herself that, should the Crone have something to say that Isobela cannot abide, that she has already packed her life away into one single flimsy rucksack - and that her years of running from Stephen has made her very quick, indeed.

 **oOo**

The Crone is settled upon her settee, legs folded beneath her body and knobby hands places upon her thighs in what Isobela recognizes as the traditional posture of Seers. She had seen many Seers in this posture since before she can properly remember and immediately adopts the deferential bow of her head that is expected when faced with the prophets of the Old Ways, the mouthpieces of the Gods. Her hair swings forward on either side of her face, stringy, in need of a good wash, and far too fine to remain pushed behind her ears.

The knights are decidedly _not_ observing the proper procedure, drawn up taut and tall with hands on swords and weary glints in their vigilant eyes - but it can be forgiven, if just this once. They do not understand the ways of the augurs and most especially do not understand the high regard of Seers. Isobela notes - immediately - that the knights _do_ understand who she allegedly is, however, as their focus shifts to her the moment she steps through the doorway of the House of Seers. She bites the insides of her cheeks, heart thudding painfully behind her ribs.

Oh, but she _doesn't want to be here_!

Her eyes catch the Crone's for a moment and the renewed sense of panic rising in her blood is stilled. "You have undergone the ritual, girl," observes the Crone, gesturing to her own eyes for a moment.

Isobela nods, silent, frowning as Toree slips against her cheek. " _The old one has noted what you cannot, speaker. Your eyes are not the same as they once were._ "

Isobela wants to ask _how_ they are different, but holds her tongue. It is not the time or the place. Instead, she slips to her knees, bowing her head to the Crone as she kneels near the edge of the Crone's pillows; she is surrounded on one side by the senior most Seers, flanked by Rosemary, and hyperaware of the knights and their holstered blades at her back. She acknowledges none save the Crone - not even the Princes of the House of Elric are allotted her subjugation, as it is right.

"It is good that you have," continues the Crone, touching a gnarled finger to Isobela's cheek, lifting her chin so that she might see the Crone fully. "For the time has now come that you must face what has awoken and become that which you have always been. You must restore, girl, and heal as you have been taught and learn more than you have dared. The balance is dependent upon you - and you, boy."

A shuffle of boot against wood, a step closer that is halted by a low hum from Rosemary. A sigh. "Lady, I know not of which you speak. Riddles are cumbersome. Please, do speak plainly."

The Crone ignores him - Sir Edvard - and continues to stare at Isobela, the cloudy blue of her eyes darting over her face. "You cannot greet destiny if you allow the embers to remain idle, but remember, child, that greatness is born from the ashes of flames just as easily as destruction."

Isobela does not understand - but she does, in a way that is not quite _there_. Something with fire that she has forgotten. Something involving her. Brows furrowed, she bows her head lower, neck falling between her shoulders. The rucksack still hitched over her shoulder shifts with the movement of Jetta and Serpico, but they remain silent, perhaps sensing the weight of the Crone's words.

"Forgive me," says Sir Edvard. "But we are not here to speak of destiny. We were sent by your King to investigate rumors of a Cursed Child. If this is the one that we seek, then we must assess whether she is a danger or not-"

"Have you not already done so, boy?" the Crone asks sharply. "Has she not healed your brother at the cost of her own blood? Has she not proven that she is not a danger?"

"They call her Cursed for a reason, surely," he argues.

Sir Emett snorts and though she cannot see him, Isobela imagines that he has rolled his eyes. "You need to clear the wax from your ears, brother. The lady has already said that Isobela isn't actually _cursed_ with anything except bad luck. I reckon that the memorial in that valley was the start of a series of unfortunate events."

"Be that as it may, due diligence is our only recourse, and then we may leave this village in peace."

"You cannot leave," counters the Crone.

"Pardon?"

"The forest," she says, wizened mouth curling at the corners. "As I have Seen, you were quite lucky to make it out alive. Foolish to travel during the winter months, but I do not make a habit of questioning princelings. Rather, I will attest that your journey will conclude much more swiftly if you have a guide."

Isobela tenses.

Surely the Crone could not mean…

"But as you insist that the girl must be examined thoroughly, I shall propose a compromise," says the Crone. "Isobela will lead you to safety from the mountains and you, in turn, will lead her safely to the good King."

"And why should I agree to such a proposal?"

"You know of her Clan. Do you not think your father would wish to see the consequences of his actions? Even Kings need reminders that their words are great inspiration to their constituents."

"Careful, Lady. Questioning a King is grounds for treason."

"I do not question, boy. I See," the Crone returns, this time her voice hard. "You will do as you are bid, for I have already Seen it. Already, I have spoken a great deal about fate in respect to both you and this child and I think you will find that fate always catches up to us. If you do not abide by my recommendations, then fate will find you in a different way - which I promise will be far less preferable."

Isobela exhales. Her mind is spinning away from the conversation, unable to keep up with all the many implications - chief among them the notion that remaining in her ancestral home would interfere with the plans of the Gods and that, for whatever reason, she was needed _outside_ of Sassa and among the mundane. Still, it is highly irregular that the Crone should speak at such lengths about what she has Seen, and even more strange that she would actively orchestrate a situation in which fate was prodded in the right direction.

It could only mean that other visions had been significantly worse and that the wisest Seer has decided that one Sight is better than the other. It is still worrisome, and for that reason Isobela's mouth runs away from her. "Crone, what have you Seen that has rattled you so?"

A pause. Then, contemplatively, "I suspect I have Seen enough to know that I shall not be refused."

It is enough to halt all arguments to the contrary.


	11. Ten: The Forest of Sassa

**Ten – The Forest of Sassa**

The Cursed Child of Sassa - the Last Heir to the Clan of Solvej - _Isobela_ -

He should have known. It was so _obvious_ , really, even Emett had had an inkling. But then, both Emett and Ealice had the luxury of spending their days at their leisure, leaving them plenty of opportunity to study tomes about augurs and family lines and all manner of interesting knowledge that Edvard simply didn't have time for. Edvard's days were spent in privy court meetings and training with the knights and, when he was younger, being tutored in the knowledge that a King _must_ know, such as economics and diplomacy. Edvard's passing interest in magic had been just that. A passing interest. It was all he had time for, to hear rumors and wonder about magic between his day-to-day duties as the First Heir to the House of Elric.

 _But also, what did any in the castle of Nordalta know about these Clans?_ Nothing that the Clans didn't want them to know. Edvard certainly hadn't a clue that the augurs could speak to animals and he's certain that Emett was just as surprised that the girl could speak with _snakes_ , even if his brother was somewhat aware of magical healing practices.

Perhaps, then, it wasn't so obvious? Between misinformation and a decided lack of information, it is not at all surprising that Edvard hadn't seen what was under his nose. An orphan living alone in a village was rare, of course, but not unheard of - even the squalor, while astonishing, wasn't exactly shocking to Edvard's sensibilities. Villages were vicious places. He had heard tale of more than one village casting out undesirables from illness or accusations of magic, though typically the crown handled such cases personally. Sassa was so far removed from Elric holdings, though. He couldn't have known.

Even _his father_ \- who had enacted a treaty with the Clan of Solvej in the war - hadn't known enough to suspect _just who_ , exactly, the Cursed Child of Sassa might be. And Edvard is absolutely certain that his father hadn't known about Isobela's circumstances because otherwise, Edvard knows the King's honor would have spurred him to intercede on the girl's behalf long ago. The House of Elric owed much to the Clan of Solvej and in fact, so too did the entire kingdom of Nordalta. Perseus Elric would not be King had he not had the cooperation of the Clans, which was facilitated by the Clan of Solvej.

 _And now, Edvard wonders, why did they not know about the massacre of an entire Clan, save for one girl?_

 _They should have been made aware._

He knows his father will reach the same conclusion prodding at Edvard - that the House of Elric now owed more to the Clan of Solvej than could ever be repaid in a lifetime.

And what's more - Edvard has bumbled a great deal of that debt all ready, between scaring the girl and allowing her magic to heal her brother and now relying on her to lead them out of this accursed forest so that they might meet up with the rest of his knights beyond the mountains. And Isobela knows the forest surrounding Sassa well, Edvard will give her that credit without grudge. He doesn't know if she has ever personally trekked the forest herself, but the confidence of her stride is enough to halt the feeling bubbling in his gut - the feeling that _he_ should be leading, not a woman. Not a girl the same age as his siblings.

There's nothing for it.

At the edge of the forest, Isobela had stopped and knelt in the snow, murmuring something under her breath that - miraculously - cleared the fog from the roots of trees. She had adjusted the rucksack on her shoulder and looked at him from beneath her lashes, not shyly, but warily. "My Lord," she'd said.

And he had said nothing in reply, merely gestured a hand forward in silence, still reeling from that convoluted conversation with the Crone and all of her riddles and what all of that might mean for _him_ and _Isobela_ and his future. Partners? Journey? And what would his father think of this when Edvard relayed these events to him? Would he be contemplative and cautious, or would the King be as alarmed as Edvard found himself to be?

Not that the girl was alarming, because - truly - she was far beyond alarm. Arresting, perhaps. Interesting. And _holy_. Because, in all actuality, that was what the augurs were - beings graced with holy magic. Isobela, he thinks, more than most. He can't imagine anyone more - pure.

But even if she were pure - was the future the Crone spoke of equally as whole?

 **oOo**

Edvard detests riddles.

 **oOo**

"Will we stop for the night, good lady?" asks Emett some hours later, after a productive stretch of time filled with the clank of metal on chainmail and the crunch of boots in fresh snow. He is asking the question that Edvard had been thinking, but that Edvard had not been in a position to pose.

Edvard is - not _embarrassed_ by his behavior, but certainly leery of it. And he does not think that Isobela likes him overmuch, or any of the knights, truly. He has the sense that she is following the urging of the Crone by rote, because it is what is expected of her and because there is no other recourse, and Edvard can sympathize with that. But she doesn't want to be in the forest. She keeps to herself, shoulders hunched against the wind, sometimes hissing to the colorful snake around her neck, a snake that sometimes peers over the girl's shoulder with bright yellow eyes and a flickering tongue. She walks ahead of the knights, her shorter legs moving at a brisk pace to keep beyond the reach of Edvard's easy stride.

He thinks that she is very small. He doesn't know why the thought rolls in his mind in such a manner, but she is _small_ and he cannot help but be intrigued by the dissociation between her physical body and her magical capabilities. Hers is the only magic he's seen, but all of it had seemed as easy as breathing. Privately, he hopes to see more magic soon so that he might compare the rumors to the truth, reasoning that it was beneficial for a future King to truly understand all powers that could conceivably threaten the crown.

It's as good a reason as any, but Edvard's thoughts tinge with falsehood as he thinks them. If he could be as open as Emett, he might express the breadth of his interest in the augurs. But he cannot be as open as Emett, both because he does not have that luxury and because it is not in his nature.

"There will be no need," says Isobela, indicating to a cluster of trees several feet ahead. The trees look the same as all the others, with lurching roots perched upon the edge of a steep ravine, but perhaps the girl can sense something with her magic that the knights cannot. She'd done _something_ earlier, kneeling in the snow, after all. "Camp may be made at the foot of the mountains."

"Ah," replies Emett, casting a look to Edvard. Smug, almost.

Edvard scowls. By God, he doesn't want to know what's going on in his brother's mind right now, what thoughts he might be thinking that have made him so completely entertained.

Instead, he turns his attention to Carlisle, the constant shadow at his side. "When we reach the mountains, you will take the knights to hunt hare and gather firewood. My brother and I shall see to other preparations for the night."

Carlisle nods, his eyes flicking just once to the girl ahead of them, but the silent question is loud - _What will she do, then?_

Edvard does not know, but he does think that the girl deserves a spot of rest for all that she has done for them. He has not forgotten that she likely saved his brother's life and he respects that, even if he resents this notion of a new journey, of a mysterious partnership. Additionally, she looks _tired_ and she still isn't dressed properly for the weather, but she hasn't requested that they rest or bed down early and that - _that_ draws more of Edvard's unwitting respect. He thinks of the ladies at court and imagines that they would be whining and effusively whimpering about the hardship of foot travel by now; he's sure that such a situation would drive him mad, in fact, and is grateful that Isobela is decidedly dissimilar to the ladies at court. But then - remembering the hovel she called a home - she knew nothing else, did she?

And it _bothered_ Edvard much more than the poverty of the common villages bothered him.

He resolutely does not think about why, lest he realize that he has been bewitched.

Though, truly, he does not think the girl capable of such farce.

 **oOo**

Isobela does not stop at the base of the mountains. Rather, to Edvard's astonishment, she reaches into the burlap rucksack and pulls out her second largest snake, one with glittering grey scales that she places on the snow and hisses at for some moments. The snake hisses back and darts off, swiftly scaling the outcropping of natural rocks on the mountain and disappearing from view. Isobela crosses her arms over her chest, huddled for warmth, and waits patiently - for the snake to return?

"What are you doing?" he finds himself asks, stepping nearer to the girl. This close, he can see an oddity in the shape of her pupil, which is slightly oblong, as if caught between human and snake - a sign of her blood heritage, maybe, or something else? He holds his ground as the vivid orchid color of her eyes sweeps over him and then back to the mountain.

"There will be a storm tonight," she answers. "It would be foolish to set camp without the proper shelter. Serpico is in search of an adequate cave."

Edvard didn't even know the Altar mountains _had_ caves. None of his maps indicated such a thing.

But more importantly, how did she know there would be a storm?

His brother, once again, vocalizes his thoughts, this time with mirth. "And how could you possibly know of a storm, lady?"

Isobela shifts, casting her eyes to the sky. True, the clouds and deep grey and heavy with the promise of snow, but the trees should provide adequate cover. And yet, the girl shivers. "Can you not feel that?"

They can't. Whatever it is that she senses with her magic, the knights are ignorant to it. Edvard realizes that they would simply have to trust her word. She knew the area, of course, which was in her favor; traveling with the knights before, Edvard knew that camping opinions were often deferred to local guides rather than the knights themselves. This would be no different.

The snake - Serpico - returns with haste and slithers back into the bag with the other large one with a hiss. Isobela nods to it and silently begins crawling over the face of the mountain, carefully following the path that her snake seems to indicate. Edvard hesitates for a moment, then steels himself, almost in disbelief that he's actually following the directions of a girl who is speaking to a snake. A _snake_.

But the snake is right and Isobela leads them to a bean-shaped cave with a low ceiling that is just large enough for the knights and the girl. She presses her hand to the rough rocks and closes her eyes, then nods to herself, evidently deeming the cave safe enough for slumber, which is what she murmurs to Emett when he asks. She then turns, deposits her rucksack at the mouth of the cave, and releases all four of her snakes - with what seems like heated arguments - into the forest to, Edvard presumes, hunt. Carlisle and the knights also leave to hunt, leaving Isobela with himself and his brother.

She pushes her back firmly against the rock, knees pulled up to her chest as she watches them kick stones to the middle of the cave, creating a circle in which Emett places kindling and a single coal. Her gaze becomes curious as she watches them struggle to start a fire between flint and steel, as if she had never seen such a display in her life. And, Edvard realizes tartly, she probably hadn't. It was - _mundane_ in comparison to the way she simply snapped her fingers to start the fire after watching them struggle for several minutes. The heat quickly fills the cave, smoke billowing out into the air, a return beacon for the knights so that they might find camp easier.

Magic is - terrifying in so many ways that Edvard had never before considered.

 **oOo**

Edvard listens in stunned disbelief as Isobela refuses the meat Carlisle brings back from the hunt. She will not eat rabbit - she's rather horrified to see it skinned and gutted, really - and refuses to touch the fish, though she regards them warily, as if she'd had bad experiences with fish before and had no intentions of repeating them.

Not that Edvard could blame her, as he'd truthfully always been leery of seafood variants after his own illness at thirteen; a bad selection of clams had kept him confined to his chambers for months during the summer and it had been difficult for the physicians to tell his fever apart from the sweats of summer. Edvard still hasn't partaken in clams. He probably never would.

Regardless, he could not stand idle as Isobela refused to eat. She was much too small, after all, and would have to keep up with the knights for another few days until Edvard could procure a horse for her to ride, as was only common and expected courtesy when traveling with women. "You must eat," he says again. "The meat will quicken your health."

She turns her face away, grimacing at the proffered kebab of rabbit meat. "I will not eat _that_. Grain and fruit has sustained me and will continue to do so," she tells him, deliberately plucking a berry that was brought back with the largest snake that is called Jetta. Isobela chews the berry succinctly.

Edvard exchanges a glance with his brother, who in turns looks at the knights. All of the men have halted in their eating, the meat cooling on their sticks. None of them could possibly eat in good conscience while knowing that a woman was going hungry - it wasn't _right_.

"I implore you to see reason and partake in greater sustenance," he says, dropping his voice, leaning nearer to the girl. "You will grow too weak for travel."

One of the snakes, the one called Toree, flicks her tongue against Isobela's nose, hissing. And Isobela's resolve falters - Edvard can almost taste victory - but when she looks up at him, the orchid of her eyes reflecting firelight with a silvery light, she looks distinctly ill, green at the gills. "I-I do not do well with meat, my Lord," she confesses. "If I eat as you do, I will not be able to travel…"

From the opposite side of the fire, Emett speaks up, holding aloft his share of rabbit and fish. "Can augurs eat meat at all? I don't recall any dietary restrictions, but it may have been an oversight…"

"Augurs can eat as you do," Isobela demurs. "But I have…never eaten as other augurs have."

For Edvard, this can mean many things; her ability to speak with snakes has given her a particular diet more in line with serpents; or perhaps the Clan of Solvej has secrets in the blood that do not allow them to eat certain things; or maybe, as some physicians at the castle have noted, Isobela is simply allergic to foods and will become terribly sick and unable to breathe if her lips touch the flesh of a rabbit.

But Edvard has a good memory - and he cannot help but remember that the villagers had clutched rocks and rotten food when Isobela drew near - cannot help but remember the stale store of nuts in the hovel Isobela called a home - cannot help but remember that Isobela was an _orphan_ from a very young age and had likely been unable to hunt for herself. He realizes, with some degree of pain clenching behind his ribs, that Isobela had probably never eaten meat that wasn't rotten, let alone eating meat that is fresh and well-cooked. It would certainly explain the paleness of her skin, which is smooth and translucent enough that he can detect the fine array of veins at her wrists, elbows, and temples.

"Of course," he says, swallowing heavily. The rabbit suddenly looks far less appetizing than it did before. "I must insist, then, that during our travels you should feel free to collect any food you _can_ eat as you come across it. You must keep up your strength."

"I - Thank you, my Lord," she says, hardly a whisper.

It is enough for Edvard.

Though he does begin to make plans to fix the issues that have been brought to his attention as soon as he is able. The first, to retrain Isobela's body to withstand the digestion of meat, of course with the assistance of court physicians. While on the road, he could perhaps attempt _dried_ meat along with a better selection of fruits and vegetables while they crossed villages - and while he was doing so, he would take special care to find clothing that was suitable for the weather. The second, he reflects grimly, would be to investigate any other incidents of neglect - in _all_ villages - because it was not _right_ for a child to develop an aversion to nutrition simply because of uncommon cruelty. He isn't sure how he will accomplish this task, yet, but he would resolve to bring it to his King's attention.

 _He could fix this_.

 **oOo**

There is a renewed sense of tension when it is time to bed down for the night. Isobela is reluctant to move further into the cave and the knights are forced to concede her wishes. She is clearly uncomfortable being in the company of so many men - _it sears Edvard's blood for women should not fear men_ \- but she seems more relaxed when she is removed from them by at least three solid feet and surrounded by her snakes. She sleeps with the large snakes beneath her body, under her head, and with the albino one's eyes trained on the knights. Her cloak is too thin, but Emett is quick to drape his blanket over her once she is asleep. Edvard realizes that he, absurdly, wishes it were _his_ blanket rather than his brother's, but it only made sense as Emett, equally as absurdly, carried two blankets in his pack.

Sleep does not come easy for Edvard, however. He cannot seem to shut his mind off and is restless enough that he cannot calm himself until he is turned onto his side and facing Isobela, her small shadow flickering into view over the heat of the fire. He is calmed, but not at peace, and the thoughts that pull him into sleepiness are centered on the hardships she must have surely suffered -

Edvard is the first to greet the day.

And when he does -

Isobela is gone.


	12. Eleven: The One in the Woods

**Eleven – The One in the Woods**

Isobela is woken from a dead sleep by the tightening of Jetta's coils around her waist. She'd been having a nightmare of sorts - she cannot remember anything save a sense of profound panic - and presses her hands to her icy cheeks, breathing heavily.

The knights and the Princes are still asleep. It had taken some convincing the night before to persuade them to all sleep at the same time; there was no need for a man to keep watch when Isobela's snakes would do a better job, having the ability to sense threats from some distance. The knights, in particular the oldest one called Carlisle, had been reluctant. They did not trust her.

Isobela could not blame them.

The Crone had gotten her into a bit of a pinch, into a complication situation that Isobela could not - _wasn't allowed to_ \- get out of. But be that as it may, Isobela had resolved to make the most of the situation she'd been thrust into, which was that of a journey to meet the King of her lands, the good ruler who had inadvertently caused the death of her entire Clan and who, in some way, truly _owed_ Isobela something that she could scarcely comprehend. And if the Crone was being truthful - which she was - then that would only be the beginning of the strange path Isobela was on. Ultimately, that meant that Isobela would do her best, as she had always done, to contribute to the society to which she was bound - and that included offering the services of her snakes, who were admittedly a bit disgruntled to protect _cretin_ , but would do so at her behest.

Isobela figures that is why Jetta is waking her so early in the morning. The sun had yet to properly rise, the sky still tinted with deep purples and blues, the clouds dyed with fraying pinks and oranges, and the fogs heavy over stone and snow. And yet Jetta persists, squeezing her waist once more until Isobela blinks at her largest snake, head tilted in silent question.

" _I sense something, hatchling, in the woods._ "

Isobela nods and makes to sit up, cautiously avoiding placing any of her weight on Jetta's tail, a practice long-mastered. Serpico slithers onto the stone of the cave floor, hissing in distaste at the change in temperature as Ingar takes his customary place over her knee, and Toree affixes herself to the folds of fabric beneath the hood of Isobela's winter cloak. Isobela tightens the leather straps on her boots, then ducks out of the cave behind Jetta, pausing at the entrance. " _Please watch over the Princes_ ," she requests of Serpico.

" _If the speaker insists_ ," he acquiesces and Isobela knows that Serpico will do as she has bid. She turns to follow Jetta, fisting her hands around the open edges of her cloak to keep as much warmth near her body as possible. The morning is absurdly frigid, but Isobela has grown so numb to the cold over the last two days. Her body is tired, though, as she is not accustomed to so much _walking_ or for so many hours. She isn't sure how the knights are able to keep such a pace, weighted down as they are by the armor on their backs and the surely heavy chainmail over their bodies.

Narrowing her eyes to see through the dim ambient light of the forest, Isobela catches sight of a narrow, dark tail disappearing through a snowdrift. Jetta is perhaps not the swiftest of snakes, given her size, but she is quiet, a lethal force skimming over freshly fallen snow with her eyes half-lidded, silently excited by the pursuit.

Isobela keeps up the best she is able and thinks - briefly - of how _familiar_ such a scene was.

 **oOo**

She is thirteen and the first indication that she is not alone comes from the shifting shuffle of fallen leaves, a pile of ocher and nutty browns and bursts of sunlight-yellow scattered across the forest floor. A dismal reminder that winter is coming, that the warmth of summer would fade, and that Isobela's nights would be spent huddled beside her hearth, joints aching from the cold. She shivers, now, as a breeze passes through the break of two trees, ruffling the leaves that lay deadened at her feet.

The breeze dies off, leaving a reign of silence - _too silent_. It is not the absence of sound as Isobela knows it, but rather an abnormal sort of stillness that she has grown to associate with her companions right before they strike at their kill.

There is a snake in the woods.

As soon as the thought crosses her mind, movement to her left draws her attention to the swift swish of a tail in retreat - of a snake slithering with hunting speed _away_ from Isobela, not toward, not to attack. It piques her curiosity. Isobela is in the forest for a specific purpose, to gather the late-bloom seeds of a flower mentioned off-hand by the Crone that had to do with numbing localized pain. By the way Isobela measures it, this is one of the last tests she has before the Crone will consider her a fully-realized healer, before Isobela is trained to the best of the Crone's knowledge and abilities. It was important that Isobela gathered those seeds - but she hesitates.

Snakes have never fled from Isobela. In the past, they have threatened her and made alliances that were temporary to allow hunting in her valley territory from snakes that are not part of her immediate clutch; snakes have hissed and flicked and spat at Isobela, but they had never _fled_.

And she wants to know why this leaf-hidden snake would flee with such speed. She feels as though she must, as if she is bound to follow this stranger-snake, and so she does. The seeds may wait another day, as the Crone did not seem particularly interested in them in the first place, though perhaps - knowing the Crone - she had only mentioned the seeds to ensure that Isobela was in this region of the forest at the exact right time. Isobela would expect nothing less.

Her boots crunch into fallen leaves noisily, but there is nothing to be done about it - and it wasn't as if the snake didn't know that Isobela was in the forest. She had no reason to attempt sneakiness. She was not _Toree_ or _Ingar_ , who would find such actions entertaining for their folly.

This snake, though, is very fast, almost as fast as Ingar when he sets his mind to speediness, and Isobela frowns because she'd _seen_ that tail and it was large, thick and coated in obsidian scales, and for all that Isobela knew about snakes, she knew that the larger the snake was, the slower it could travel. Which was evidently false, as Isobela catches better sight of this snake as she races after it through the debris of fallen leaves and loose topsoil. It is quite possibly the largest snake Isobela has ever had the privilege to see.

 _"Wait! I mean you no harm!"_

The snake does not listen, nor does it slow.

Isobela tries a different tactic, ignoring the pang of guilt that soon follows her words that are designed for manipulation. " _This is my territory!_ " she hisses, breathless. _"I demand you halt or so suffer the wrath of the Solvej Clan!"_

A threatening hiss erupts from the snake as it skids through fallen leaves, coming to a stop somewhere beneath a crunching pile, its wide, dark head peeking out just enough that Isobela catches the glimmer of flinty onyx eyes framed by a smattering of scales a scant shade lighter that pure black kohl, glinting in the mid-sun faintly, swallowing up the light. Isobela's breath catches in her chest. The snake is _beautiful_.

And so very, very sad.

" _Two-legs that speaks,"_ says the snake, and the voice is distinctly feminine, low and smooth. The snake's head edges out of the fallen leaves a scant inch, her eyes unblinking. " _Has this speaker come to kill my clutch as well?"_

Furiously, Isobela shakes her head in denial. " _I would_ never _. That is the highest crime. You have my most sincere condolences, snake, and any favor of mine is yours on the honor of my Clan._ "

The snake hisses, opening her mouth to reveal two stubbed fangs, short but not venomous. " _The only favor I would have from a two-legged is to assist in the retribution for the murder of my children_ ," the snake decries with fury, slipping from the leaves and revealing the full breadth of her glittering jet coils.

Isobela is only thirteen - but she recognizes pain for what it is and her heart lurches for this mother who has been robbed the lives of her children. " _I will help you_ ," she promises.

 **oOo**

It is Isobela's greatest pride that she helped Jetta find the tradesmen who stole her clutch and thoughtlessly crushed the magical eggs beneath their heels once it became apparent that none in Sassa would purchase them -

But it is also her greatest shame, the one she does not think of, that Isobela watched - impassive - as Jetta tightened thick coils around throats and reclaimed the lives that had been stolen. Some nights, she still wakes to the image of bulging eyes and tongues of filthy men, more shaken by her lack of remorse than the images themselves.

It is something that she and Jetta share. It is the reason - this secret - that Jetta has stayed and substituted Isobela for the clutch that was taken from her. It is the reason that Isobela trusts Jetta implicitly with her life and with the guarding of any territory Isobela claims as hers - for she knows that Jetta would never make the same mistake twice.

Snakes are ruthless in this manner.

 **oOo**

Jetta stops abruptly at an outcropping on the lowermost edge of the mountain pass. She had led Isobela back toward the village, but not through the forest, and Isobela had been confused, at first, until she realized that this was a well-known path of the traders who sometimes frequented Sassa and therefore was a path known to many villagers. She frowns at her snake and kneels in the snow. Jetta is wise enough to stop far beyond the range of where her prey can sense her, but even still, Isobela pitches her voice as low as possible, orchid eyes roving over the low-hanging branches of smaller trees with suspicion.

" _What is it?_ "

" _Cretin have followed you, hatchling_."

Toree hisses in response, a scathing sort of noise right in Isobela's ear, and Isobela nods - she'd been _followed_. She shudders and heaves a sigh, calming herself.

" _Who, Jetta? Someone of the village? Perhaps a Seer_?"

" _The worst-born cretin that incensed Serpico_ ," answers Jetta, adding an angry hiss of her flicking tongue to punctuate her own ire. Jetta is very angry, her scales rippling in protective irritation. Ingar's reaction is similar as he tightens around her knee in furious pulses.

Isobela's stomach clenches. Jetta could only be talking about _Stephen_ , as for weeks Serpico had referred to her peer only as "the worst-born cretin" and the trend had caught along the rest of her snakes until even Isobela had mentally equated Stephen with the crude epitaph, much to her internal shame. And though it is true that snakes have no concept of rape - or attempted rape - they are intelligent, yes, but they are also animals and do not recognize consent in the same way that humans do - yet Isobela has found that snakes do have concepts of pain and shame and violation, and it is these concepts that have condemned Stephen and his creed on her behalf.

What would Stephen be doing in the forest? He'd made it no secret among the villagers that he loathed the forest, which was so imbued with Isobela's magic for the protection of the village that the forest was sentient enough to recognize the danger that Stephen posed - though, of course, he would not realize this for what it was. As far as Stephen could loudly and brashly relate, the forest was merely dangerous, which was true enough given the steep ravines and narrow paths that twisted beneath feet.

Still - he would not be _in_ the forest for any mere reason.

Worry grips her and Isobela looks down at Jetta. " _Has he been following us long_?"

" _This one has only realized the cretin's presence in the last hour,_ " Jetta answers.

" _Vermin_ ," Ingar says derisively.

Isobela relaxes minutely. As far as she and the snakes had been able to figure, Jetta's range itself was a magic of sorts, along with her speed and the density of her black scales - and that ultimately meant that Jetta's range of senses was broad enough to easily cover three times the distance of the valley that memorialized Isobela's Clan. Quite far, in all respects. Jetta was constantly monitoring all sounds and smells that came within her considerable range, dismissing many factors as inconsequential unless otherwise indicated. It had saved Isobela's hide more than once and - on one gut-wrenchingly memorable occasion - had led to vindication.

If Jetta is only _now_ sensing Stephen, then he had likely only been able to follow the tracks of Isobela and the knights through the wood, probably while fresh snow was falling or else he wouldn't have gotten so far. Judging by the amount of new snow beneath Isobela's knees, Stephen had come to some sort of impasse - if she had to guess, she supposed that nature had favored her and covered the remainder of the tracks, else Stephen would be much, much closer to the cave.

Her mouth twists with a frown. Isobela is certain that Stephen is _quite_ close enough, actually.

" _Is he the only one, or are there more?"_

Jetta tilts her head. " _This one scents two others. The cretin bicker among themselves like fools, hatchling. They know not that this one is aware of them._ "

 _"Good_ ," Toree decrees.

Isobela leans back on her haunches, biting her lip as her mind races. Stephen and two other villagers are following her and likely know that she is in the company of travelers from outside the village; they are unable to follow tracks to the cave because snow had fallen quicker than they had been able to track her and the knights; they are arguing with each other; it is cold and due to snow _more_ and the sun would rise very quickly during this time of year. Many, many things to consider.

Isobela likes to think that she has some measure of honor and as of right now, much of her honor depends on returning the Princes to their castle and fulfilling whatever journey the Crone had set her upon. She would only be able to do that if she avoided Stephen and his lot, which would be much more difficult now that Isobela had led the knights outside of the forest. She was no longer on familiar ground. Isobela had never traversed _mountains_. Serpico had, though, and that was something of an advantage.

And Isobela could use that advantage - but only if Stephen, who made her so leery, was avoided successfully.

Isobela could only see one viable option.

" _Cover our tracks,"_ she hisses softly, shifting to walk in a half-crouch back in the direction of the cave, careful to place her feet where they had already tread in the snow so Jetta's sweeping tail wouldn't have to do double the work. Isobela is much faster retracing her steps than before and though her body is somewhat sore between the walking of the day before and the seeping, steady cold of winter, she returns to the cave with utmost haste, Jetta on her heels.

She had no expected the knights to be awake or clamoring loudly within the cave. She hears her name more than once and blinks at the smattering of boot tracks circling the cave and several bushes around the cave. They had woken to find her missing - and had looked for her?

How strange.

Isobela's worn boots scuffle against stone as she ducks into the mouth of the cave -

Very quickly, she finds herself faced with the sharp ends of several longswords and at least three daggers, much to Jetta's dislike and Toree's alarm. Ingar skirts down her leg and sways threatening in front of her as the knights hold themselves before the Princes. Isobela holds her hands up, fingers spread wide, quaking in fear. She isn't sure what she has _done_ aside from return to the cave, but she did not know the ways of the mundane, and perhaps she had overlooked some sort of social cue. Or, more likely, they had reacted as they were trained to do toward any sort of threat, herself included.

In short order, however, Sir Emett and Sir Edvard call the knights off and then Isobela is presented with a seething Prince, demanding to know where she had gone and why and -

"I beg your pardon," she says with soft sigh. "I left Serpico to guard your safety."

Sir Edvard's nose flares, his ears red. "Yes, yes. I see that you left the snake, but that does not explain where _you_ were!"

Isobela tugs her cloak closer to her body, discomfited by his proximity. Sir Edvard is very tall, several inches taller than his brother, and more broad. His chin is course with shadow, stubble from facial hair that has not been shaved for days, and his silvery eyes are burning and bright with the force of his emotion. He _looms_ over her - and Isobela does not know how it makes her feel, aside from the racing of her heart and the way Ingar refuses to back down, hissing and spitting at Sir Edvard's boots.

It does not even occur to Isobela to lie. "Jetta woke me when she sensed a pursuit at the edge of our territory," she says slowly, her brow furrowed in concern. "I left to find out who had followed our tracks and to make sure that following us would be more difficult-"

"We are being tailed by your villagers?" the knight called Carlisle cuts in, voice deep and deadly enough to match the array of white scars bisecting his weathered face.

Isobela backs up a step, nodding silently. "Three," she replies. "But I - I don't think that they can continue - the snow, you see, it has covered our tracks, as has Jetta -"

"And what was your plan?" Sir Edvard demands and Isobela's magic jumps in her blood, boiling hotly under her fingertips. "To lead them to us? To bargain for coffers to restore the estate of your Clan?"

"You truly are an imbecile," Sir Emett chides. He shakes his head and apologizes to Isobela. "Do try to excuse him, lady, for I believe the nursemaids dropped him far too many times as a babe and he cannot help himself."

Sir Edvard's lips press together, but he restrains himself from responding. He appears genuinely contrite, which is why Isobela doesn't take offense to the clear accusation of her honor.

Rather, she responds with her chin held high, grateful that her voice does not betray her own emotions, grateful that her magic does not leap about the cave in reaction to the ebbing tension. "I returned in the hopes of waking you so that we might continue on this journey before any become wiser to our true path. I thought it wise to leave camp early and continue forth."

"An admirable idea," Sir Emett smiles genially.

"Let us not dally, then, lads," Sir Carlisle says after a tense moment. He quietly issues orders to the other knights and Isobela turns away to help Jetta and Serpico into her rucksack, scooping Ingar up and resting him beside Toree around her neck.

She avoids the searching gaze of Sir Edvard, for she cannot bring herself to look at him - she is far too confused, both in her heart and in her mind, and he is undoubtedly the cause. She might have dismissed him if not for his polarizing behavior. She might have ignored him if not for the Crone's cryptic predictions. She might have forgotten to acknowledge him, even, if not for the way her magic reached and stretched and fluttered toward him from beneath her skin - and it is that which confuses her so. She does not appreciate the conclusions he often jumps to, but she also cannot miss how her magic is so attuned to the Prince.

She had never - _never_ \- heard of such a thing happening, even among augurs. Magic was personal. Magic responded to the augur because the augur was cast in the Old Ways by the Old Ones. Isobela's magic was _hers_.

Except, evidently, where the First Heir of the House of Elric was concerned.

And Isobela, for the life of her and her familiars, does not know what to make of the phenomenon.


	13. Twelve: The Confrontation

**Twelve – The Confrontation**

Edvard is ashamed of himself. He's behaving like an absolute _cad_ \- and he cannot seem to stop himself from jumping to wild conclusions and belligerent accusations. For the life of him, he is taunted by that girl and she doesn't have a clue what she does, what she inspires in him with no more than a breath or a shift of her feet. As a matter of fact, he doesn't know why he reacts to her so uniquely, but he is thrown completely off-balance by Isobela.

He is not himself when she is near. It has become tiresome and frustrating and after the incident in the cave when she returned - when her presence soothed the tension in his chest upon his discovery of her missing - Edvard made a point to distance himself from her. It was for her good as well as his own. He could not - would not - forgive himself another time. Had his father been present, he is sure that Edvard would have been taken over a knee or switched for his impertinence. He does not dare think of what Ealice might say about his behavior - it is bad enough that Emett is able to bear witness, and worse that his knights, his future subjects, are catching a glimpse of the short-sightedness of his youth.

Edvard has always been mercurial by nature; he is prone to brooding in private and readily admits that his moods can fluctuate as quickly as the moon changes phases in the sky. Knowing his duty, Edvard has made every effort to suppress this nature and had become taciturn as a result.

And yet all it took was exposure to a slip of a girl for less than a handful of days for his work at self-improvement to crumble. It is mortifying.

He shall have to strive to correct that, to nullify his faults as all Kings must for the benefit of his kingdom. Perhaps it was what the Crone intended.

 **oOo**

Traversing the mountains for a second time in less than a week is grueling, a task made more commanding by the need to take routes on which Isobela could use; she is doubtlessly spry and agile, but she is small and comparatively weak and by an unspoken agreement, the knights seek a route easier than the one they had previously used. It adds untold hours to their overall journey, but Edvard is satisfied both by the progress and by the distance the mountains demand between himself and the augur girl.

He and Emett are settled next to each other, right behind Carlisle, who climbs ahead of them with a wary eye looking for the danger that Isobela eluded to; Isobela is crowded between two other knights, Jasper and Petir, who offer their support when required while James, as veteran as Carlisle, pulls up the rear of their group. Edvard notes that Isobela does not appear as discomfited as she did the day before - perhaps she is accustomed to the knights and feels safe within their group - but he does notice that she winces every once in a while. He attributes it to soreness brought upon by physical activity, as God knows that Edvard had felt the same soreness more than once in his life. He sympathizes.

So does his brother, but not for the reason that Edvard might have expected.

"By the Gods, I never did think this quest would be so exerting!"

"What did you imagine, brother? That we might ride our horses at a pleasing clip and house ourselves in the most opulent manors of the kingdom as we spend our days dallying with fair wenches?" Edvard asks drily, following Carlisle's exact step sequence carefully. The mountain stone is slick with a fine sheet of ice and the way down is far too steep to be frivolous with his movements; he remains focused, economical. They have been climbing for quite a while and, as Edvard peers beyond Carlisle, he can see the end in sight, the descent rather smooth for such a slope, helped with the natural handholds of stone.

Emett snorts. "Rather not," he returns. "But I did not imagine that we would search for a single girl and stumble across such a perplexing series of events. I'm delighted that I decided to come along, after all. I cannot wait to tell Ealice how _wrong_ she was."

Edvard's grip falters as he registers his brother's statement, his feet shifting along icy stone as he halts, jaw clenched in vexation as he stares down his nose at Emett. "Pray tell, what do you mean _decided to come along_?"

Emett's eyes widen for a fraction of a second before his expression relaxes into a sheepish moue. "Only that none would suppose I should accompany the knights on this journey for reasons beyond my comprehension."

"Do you mean you _weren't_ supposed to be accompanying the knights on this journey?"

Emett tips his lips into an infinitesimal smile, one shoulder lifting in a shrug. "In the loosest sense, dear brother, I was not exactly invited on this auspicious outing."

"And in the truest sense?" Edvard demands through gritted teeth, his jaw ticking in a tight clench as he looms over his sibling.

"Well. Father did not _not_ say -"

"Enough!" Edvard shakes his head, as if such an action could dispel the disbelief from his mind. But what else could he expect from _Emett._ This is just the sort of stunt that his brother had been performing since he could toddle on two feet. "I cannot believe you snuck out of the castle - no. That's untrue, I _can_ believe it! And I don't know what you were thinking! Both Heirs of the Elric House outside of the castle proper? At the _same time_? In the _same_ location? That is inviting disaster, Emett, and you are very lucky that nothing has happened to you that God has not seen fit to provide recourse for-"

"The King expressed his interest in seeing me become more princely," Emett argues hotly, pulling his chest taut beneath the clink of chainmail. "Have I not done so? Princes do as they _please_."

Edvard rolls his eyes, inadvertently catching Isobela's eyes. He is somewhat comforted that she seems just as incredulous he is at this situation, if not fretful on Emett' behalf. Despite how it might sound, however, Edvard has never struck someone in anger, not even his half-wit of a brother. "Indeed, I will leave it to _you_ to tell father of what you've done. Had I known you were not meant to be on this quest-"

"Ah, but you didn't know and no harm has come to either of us."

"No harm?" Edvard repeats. "No _harm_? You would have been very harmed had we not came across a healer with considerable talents, brother, and you would do well to remember that."

Emett looks back, smiling at Isobela at the reminder of the miracle she had performed with her magic, seeming to all the world that he had forgotten how injured he'd been. Edvard supposes it is a testament to the incredible feat that magic is capable of that his brother's hard head was mended so well that he'd let it slip his mind that he'd been wounded, perhaps fatally, in the first place.

"We will have to send a rider ahead with a missive to the King once we are reunited with the rest of the contingent," Edvard decides aloud, already drafting the letter in his head to claim his own innocence in Emett' most recent folly. Regardless, though, Edvard is prepared to take responsibility; as his father would suggest, Edvard _should_ have clarified why Emett had turned up on horseback after the knights had already set off. Edvard should have known. When he was King, he would have to see these disparities for what they were.

Edvard seals his lips tightly as the group scales down the mountain face, his expression surely as thunderous as his thoughts. He does not notice that the large snake - Jetta - has escaped Isobela's rucksack, winding around ankles with determination and a low hiss, until the girl calls out with alarm, taking off after the serpent right into the heart of this new, more sparse forest on the other side of the Altar mountains.

Edvard does not spare a second's thought before he, too, gives chase, trailing after silver-blond hair and little feet with swiftness trained into the muscles of his body. Behind him, he can hear Emett and Carlisle yell in response, but Edvard does not halt. Isobela, like his brother, is his responsibility; he has been charged with her safety by the Crone and he owed it to her family's sacrifice for the crown to ensure her safety to the best of his ability, his lack of control over his own tongue be damned.

It is truly astonishing how fast one girl can run, even weighed down by three snakes and a furred cloak that had seen better days. Isobela darts between trees nearly as fast as Jetta slithers forward, straight through drifts of snow clustered around roots, black scales disappearing beneath untouched, powdery snow and ice. Edvard listens to the sibilant sounds spilling from Isobela's mouth, wondering if she was speaking as urgently as it sounded, wondering if she was demanding the snake stop or if she was demanding answers. Jetta had been the snake to lead her away from the camp earlier and had good reason to do so -

Was it possible that the villagers had another way around the mountain pass? That the villagers following Isobela _used_ that route in order to ambush the girl here and now?

The answer is a resounding _yes_.

 **oOo**

And it all makes sense, doesn't it? He'd known, perhaps instinctively, perhaps belatedly, but he'd known that she wasn't treated right in that village - and given that, why _wouldn't_ she be stalked the moment she left?

At the very least, he should have expected something like that. He wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

 **oOo**

Edvard catches up to Isobela nearly the same moment that Jetta stops streaking through the forest. As a result, his chest bumps into Isobela's slender back, jarring her balance badly enough that Edvard automatically reaches out to steady her shoulders, narrowly missing the snap of the small white snake's fangs as the serpent guardedly aims for Edvard's gloved fingers. He pulls his hands away, heart thundering in his chest as he tries to make sense of what he's seeing.

All that Edvard knows about magic is extremely limited. He is aware that augur flames take on peculiar colors, that Isobela has the power of fire at the snap of her fingers. He knows that healing magic is similar to the methods of physicians, but far more efficient. He understands, from all-too-brief tomes in the castle library, that the augurs consider their power holy, that they have rituals, that their magic is blessed by divine plan that he cannot hope to comprehend.

But he has never truly seen magic - not like this.

The sight before him is very much unlike the demonstrations Isobela has casually shown. Three youths - a broad, ruddy-faced boy, a dark-haired girl, and a horse-faced boy - stand in a triangular formation, hands linked as they face Isobela. Their lips move silently, yet it is clear that they are casting some sort of magic by the way the snow lifts from the forest floor, bowing against a force that Edvard cannot see, but he feels it in the acute pressure against his skin that pushes him several steps backward. The snakes hanging from Isobela's body twist in some distress and Isobela - her hair blows back from her face as the pressure grows, until Edvard is certain that she will break -

The unseen force coalesces into a visible spear awash in a greenish-hue that strongly reminds Edvard of illness; it sparks and pulses as the three youths drop their hands, the ruddy-faced boy reaching out to grasp the spear by the haft, hefting it and swinging it in a clear threat.

Edvard draws his sword in response, smoothly stepping in front of Isobela now that the force is no longer pushing him back. "I would ask that you stay your weapon," he says, eyeing the magic spear with trepidation, unsure of what it could do to him or if his sword was even a match against it.

"You have no authority over me," spits the ruddy-faced boy. "This is village business. We can't let the Cursed Child leave, you see, or she'll spread the curse around. Don't want that. We've got enough problems."

Edvard's hand tightens on the hilt, his mind wild with strategy - and also concerned with the way the boy speaks about Isobela, the way he _looks_ at her as if he has any right to do so. He doesn't understand why they say she's cursed if they know what happened to her Clan, but he doesn't care for the politics of villages beyond the bigger picture of what it means for his kingdom. "I think you'll find that I have authority over more than you assume," he replies carefully.

"Stephen, you must desist," Isobela chimes in softly, her voice just above a whisper. "The Crone has Seen -"

"That old hag doesn't know what she's talking about!"

The dark-haired girl gasps, then shoots a nervous glance to her other compatriot, who appears uneasy. Edvard suspects that they hadn't any idea what the ringleader's plans truly were, else they might not have agreed to such ill-fated actions.

"I'll ask that you treat the Crone with the respect her position deserves."

"Shut your mouth," Stephen retorts, spinning the sparking green spear before jabbing it in Isobela's direction idly. "Nobody asked what your worthless thoughts were, did they? You witch, casting enchantments with your cursed tongue, speaking to those hell-born snakes, walking around like you deserve to live after your curse annihilated one of the sacred Clans. Disgrace, I'm not done _playing_ with you, yet."

Isobela shudders and something clicks in Edvard's mind, a slot of intuition that this _Stephen_ is the reason that she is so fretful around the knights, so uncomfortable around men. What had he done? Or threatened to do? The very thought makes Edvard sick, and he finds himself hoisting his sword higher, ready to parry in defense of Isobela.

But he does not get the chance.

Stephen throws the spear faster than Edvard had estimated, the tip arching through the air and aimed directly at Isobela's chest. One of the snakes hisses - or maybe all of them do - but their warning is for naught, as Isobela lifts one hand, fingers splayed, and simply _stops_ the spear, dissipating the greenish magic before it can so much as touch her skin. She is frowning, orchid eyes flashing, pupils elongated ever so slightly, her silver-blond hair a halo around the fine bones of her face.

"You are a shame to the Clan of Borr," she declares evenly, her tone imbued with a power that sends shivers of awareness straight down Edvard's spine. Isobela folds her fingers into a fist. The brightly-scaled snake - Toree - slips down her shoulder to wrap around her wrist, opening her jaw wide to bite directly into Isobela's wrist, much to Edvard's horror -

And to the shock of Stephen and the other two. "You-you-"

"If I am cursed, so mote it be," says Isobela morosely, her eyes taking on a silvery glow as she edges around Edvard with quiet, measured steps, bringing herself within touching distance of the villagers. "But I cannot allow you to do as you wish, Stephen of the Clan of Borr. It is treason."

And with that - though Edvard cannot see it clearly - Isobela does something with her hands, twisting and locking her fingers together, fingers that are coated in snake venom and blood - she exhales and as she does, there is a formation of golden-white light, much brighter, much stronger than what the three villagers had managed to conjure. With a sudden, final twitch of her hands, the force of Isobela's magic flows forward, knocking back all three of the youths and blowing the snow from the trees, from the forest floor for as far as the eyes can see. The naked tree branches shiver with echoes of the magic, even as Edvard's own knees quiver from the raw magnitude of power that seems so effortless, even as Isobela tilts her head, examining the fallen villagers impassively.

Edvard lowers his sword, staring at this tiny girl in ragged clothing - this girl that has been neglected and abused, but is still kind - this girl that talks to snakes and lets those snakes bite her and does not eat meat - this girl no older than his own sister, but who seems impossibly wise, older than her years. Edvard suddenly understands why this girl is called the Cursed Child of Sassa. Left dumbfounded in the wake of her power, Edvard knows that the breadth of her magic is her curse, that her ability - known or innately sensed by other augurs - has made her feared and hated in equal turns.

Edvard is certain that she wields the true power of the Gods that she worships.

And it frightens him. He is not ashamed to admit that. It is terrifying that she could so easily disarm entire legions of knights, make weapons utterly useless, _kill_ with nothing more than a thought. But his fear is tempered by what he knows of her and he does not think her capable of slaughter, a thought that is supported when Isobela turns away from the villagers, pressing her fingers against the wound inflicted by Toree, her expression drawn and wary.

"I did not kill them," she whispers. "I promise it is true, they will awaken shortly, my Lord. But I could not risk allowing their magic to - you are not augur, Prince - I am terribly sorry…"

He resists the urge to ask her clarify what she means about him not being _augur_ in favor of sheathing his sword and pushing dark hair away from his face. He's well aware that _mundane_ people like himself are extremely vulnerable to magic. It did not escape his notice that Isobela took special care to block him from any possible backlash, which sits wrongly with him, with the ideas of knighthood; the reversal in role makes him feel wrong-footed and unsure.

"It is fine," he assures her, taking a look at the villagers for himself. They are indeed breathing and unharmed, aside from being thrown on top of each other in haphazard pile. He studies Isobela for a moment, the faint point of her ear, the pale freckles across her nose, the wide roundness of honesty in her gaze. Powerful, indeed, but also pure of heart, he's sure of it. "I extend my gratitude to you for…protecting me so righteously. Thank you."

Isobela looks down, petting along the curve of Toree's body, from head to the lower-most scale. She appears deeply uncomfortable. Edvard can only guess as to why.

"Let us not linger in this place," he says, gentling his voice, waiting until she looks back up at him - because he does not think he could possibly speak another word until the vibrant orchid of her eyes is focused on _him_ , a thought which is most unwelcome given the circumstances. Edvard exhales, clearing his mind from the display he'd just borne witness to, as he would have opportunities to think on it later. "Do you think your serpent could possibly lead us back to my knights? I should hate to offer my brother a chance to get himself truly lost in these woods."

The humor - as with most of his interactions with Isobela - falls flat, but she nods anyway and Jetta leads them away from the snow-barren half of the forest.

Edvard thinks about Isobela's magic for the remainder of the day and well into the night, long after he has been reunited with Igor and the other horses and knights, pondering time away while camp is made and while Isobela settles into a restless sleep beneath a large tree - far, far away from him.

 **oOo**

And he wonders, _what other surprises will this girl bestow upon me_?


	14. Thirteen: The Road to Nordalta

**Thirteen – The Road to Nordalta**

Isobela does not have the same reaction to Toree's venom as she did the morning following the ritual; she did not shake with fever or ache in her bones, does not feel acid clawing through her blood or the fervent desire for absolution. She thinks, perhaps, it is because her magic is already one with Toree's particular bite, already tuned to the magic of the snake the same way that the sun was tuned to the revolution of the moon.

But this does not explain _what_ her magic had done.

It would be dismissive to claim that Isobela's magic had never been so powerful, as the true crux of the issue was that Isobela had never heard of _any_ magic performing with such ferocity - let alone the magic running through her veins, which up until now had been limited to the scope of regular augurs and stunted by her inability to train in her Clan's style of magic-casting. It was in all truth entirely unheard of for a single augur to harness that much raw power, the likes of which were more akin to the Old Ones to which augurs prayed -

And Isobela is frightened beyond belief, her stomach leaden and her air trapped within her breast. She does not know what it could possibly indicate - she had not anticipated any such destructive force of the sort when she had undergone the ritual - and the Crone had certainly not imparted any warnings of a similar fashion -

Her first inclination is to believe that she is truly cursed. It is an idea that has been ingrained in her head for as long as Isobela can remember, but she had always been able to divorce the thought from herself on the basis that she knew there was nothing extraordinary about her to ground the rumors in truth. Isobela's magic was ordinary. She was no match for an Elder of any Clan. Or - or she hadn't been until the ritual.

Until the Prince.

She cannot deny it that there is a peculiar parallel between her magic and Sir Edvard; she had noticed it before, how very eager magic was to do her bidding when she was in his presence, almost as if her magic recognized something kindred in the mundane Prince. Isobela had accepted this easily enough, resolving to temper her magic lest she do something to alienate herself from the group she traveled with, or worse, scare them into treating her as nothing more than a barbarian. She had been confident that her control over her magic was complete, even factoring how earnest her bloodline was to this mercurial man to whom she truly owed nothing save her promise to the Crone.

But then - his life had been in danger. Isobela had immediately recognized that despite the brandishing of his sword in the direction of Stephen, his posturing and clear desire to _protect Isobela_. Sir Edvard was no match for magic. He _was_ mundane, after all, and held no resilience to the effects of magic. He would be unduly harmed, perhaps irreparably.

Even so, realizing all of that, Isobela's desire to stop Stephen had been to simply block the triad spell from reaching the Prince and then perhaps appeal to better reason…

Isobela does not recall, exactly, what happened between the charging of the her defensive magic and the resulting end of three unconscious augurs amid a half-desolate forest. She knows that she had asked for Toree's assistance - but then her mind is curiously foggy and her remembrance of the spell she used imperfect at best. It was as if her body was not her own, as if her magic were acting through her without her full consent, taking her desire to protect the Prince and amplifying it to such a degree that it is _unthinkable_ how easy it might have been to end the lives of people she had grown up with. She had come-to from the rush of lightning-bright power, swaying on her feet and utterly distraught at what she had evidently done, her voice stammering an explanation that she sensed fell on the deaf ears of Sir Edvard.

Isobela's chest clenches.

She could have become a murderer this day and she does not know why or how it is possible - which, perhaps, is the true source of terror that grips at her mind.

There is something _wrong_ with her magic.

Isobela does not know what to do.

 **oOo**

She wishes, more than anything, that she could speak to someone who might understand her plight -

But as always, Isobela is alone save for snakes that do not understand her distress and men who can not comprehend the gravity of her actions.

 _Is it possible that it might happen again_?

 **oOo**

The contingent of knights in Isobela's immediate vicinity rises to thirteen upon clearing the mountain later that evening, and upon the return of their Princes, Isobela is keen to observe the relief plain on the faces of men who have forgone razors and sleep for several days in favor of keeping watch. Her brow wrinkles in thought as she stands apart from the group of men and horses, absorbing the reunion with a sense of melancholy that she cannot quite place.

It matters not - Sir Edvard has not mentioned the outburst of her magic that he had witnessed in the forest, though he had communicated the appearance of villagers and their subsequent state of detachment from the trail around the mountain. He'd assured his knights that there was nothing to worry about, his gaze firmly fixed away from Isobela; and if there were glances in her direction, eyes locked upon Toree's position around her wrist, then the knights were polite enough to stay their tongues. Sir Carlisle had insisted that they not rest at the base of the mountain, as they had planned, in light of the most recent events, but that had been the end of the incident much to Isobela's dismay.

She is not sure what she should have expected from the First Prince, but it had not been his silence. His reaction had been so very different from the days before. He had not jumped to a conclusion, had not misunderstood her aims, or confused the situation. She thinks that - perhaps - she might have confounded him as much as herself with that magical display and is grateful that he does not mention it. But as gratifying as his silence is, it is also grating on her conscious, needling at the paranoia that sits in the back of her mind that makes her wonder if he was merely biding his time, if he thought that she was a threat _to him_ in spite of the Crone's prophetic decree -

Isobela resigns herself to not thinking about it - the situation or the strangeness of her magic - until it can no longer be avoided. She has never once in her life been presented with a situation that does not somehow resolve itself without any direct involvement of herself, including the recruitment of her familiars. Hopefully, this journey she found herself on would be the same. And if not -

 _No. Better to not think on it._

The base of the mountains is not far from a mundane village known for trading wares made of the hide of wildlife found in the surrounding forest, as well as providing shelter for traders on the route to the northern lands. Sir Edvard assigns the young knight Jasper - a familiar face to Isobela, at the very least, with kind brown eyes and who had helped her so gallantly on the mountain - to be her personal guard while in the mundane village. Isobela has half a mind to protest, sure that she needs no such protection, but Sir Emett agrees with this proclamation that that steadies her opinion before it is made known; if the youngest Prince, who had proven to be so reckless, agreed with his brother, then the suggestion was meant to be taken seriously indeed.

It occurs to Isobela that Sir Edvard's instruction was also to the benefit of the rest of the knights, who refrain from questioning her presence as Jasper stands stoic at her side. Sir Edvard's insistence on the protection of from a single knight is also an insistence on the protection from all of the knights, as well as a subtle clue that Isobela was meant to travel with them back to Nordalta. She is amazed at the effect of a single simple order and understands - truly - for the first time - that Sir Edvard was a _prince_ , that he had power and that his opinion was to be unquestioned. It was easy to forget who he and his brother were, even if she knew intellectually their position.

She wonders if her own position would have been similar had her family not been massacred, had she not been the last of her Clan.

It is a foolish thought to pursue, and rather pointless.

In any case, Jasper is kindred to Isobela, quiet and reserved and quick to offering help wherever necessary. It is Jasper who helps Isobela onto a chestnut mare, who holds the rucksack housing Jetta and Serpico as she struggles onto the great height until the sack can wedge firmly between her thighs and the neck of the horse. It is Jasper who takes the reigns and walks alongside the horse, making idle suggestions on how best to keep her balance on the unfamiliar steed and relaying his first experience riding a horse as a boy. "Though I do hope that you will not fall as I did," he says and Isobela's mouth twitches into a smile, air passing more easily from her lungs.

Horse-riding is not a particularly pleasant experience. Isobela's pelvis quickly takes on a peculiar ache from the spread of her legs around the girth of the horse, her bottom and thighs sore from the constant motion of rocking along with the forward, jostling motion. She had attempted to ride side-saddle, as Jasper had first suggested, but that had proven to be too difficult for one unaccustomed to such heights and unaccustomed to equine travel. Her balance had been far too precarious. Isobela felt moderately more stable astride the horse seated as a man would ride, though of course the position caused the hem on her thin dress to catch around her knees, which was indecent until Jasper fetched a blanket to tuck around her lower body and preserve her modesty. He said that it was something ladies often did in the winter were they so inclined to ride traditionally.

"I do not blame them," she had murmured, much to Jasper's muted amusement.

Isobela's horse is fit in the middle of the group, a position similar to the one she had taken on the mountains. The Princes ride behind Sir Carlisle, followed by two knights, then Isobela and Jasper, then Petir and another set of several knights with James at the rear. It is a formation that will become familiar quickly in the time it takes to travel the road of Nordalta, though at the moment it is new enough that Isobela's shoulders draw high to her neck, stiff and tense, unsure about the weight of eyes along her back. Unsure about many things, truly.

The village is quite larger than Sassa, but of course it would be. As a trading route depot, there are stalls gathered in the middle of the town where wares were sold and haggled; all manner of things seemed to pass through the hands of the mundane, things that Isobela had never seen before. Augurs were modest people. She supposes, with the advantage of magic, they had the prerogative to live without glittering jewels, lush furs, and steaming, spiced meats served beside piping cider and ale. Still astride the horse led by Jasper, her wide-eyed gaze is drawn to the new wonders, the rich scent of herb and tobacco, the delicate clink of glass and metal accessories, the colorful dye of fabrics. Her senses are all ensnared - sight, smell, and touch as she locks her fingers together around the strap of her rucksack so that she will not reach out and _feel_. For the first time in her life, Isobela has the urge to immerse herself in the deep draw of a crowd. She is willing to suffer the brush of bodies against her own if only for a moment, if only for a closer glimpse of that fine horse-haired ragdoll with glass eyes and a fair clay face.

Isobela had always wanted a doll, just like the other girls in Sassa…

The knights do not stop, though. The contingent presses through the crowd in way only large men and horses can, navigating to the far side of the village square where there is a lumbering, squat building proudly proclaiming itself to be an inn. While not a particularly nice building, especially in comparison to the rest of the building which seems determined to brag of the gold surely passing hands in the trade stalls, the inn is still far more well-maintained than any accommodations Isobela is familiar with and her curious eye is drawn to examining the odd way mundanes cobble their buildings. To think - wood pierced by metal, the distinct scent of fresh tar coagulating on the roof is what passes as shelter to the mundane people.

Sir Carlisle and Sir Edvard procure accommodations for the night, including stables for the horses. "Three rooms," says the eldest knight as Jasper carefully helps Isobela down from the horse. She winces as she straightens, her bottom burning with a fierce ache that makes her glance dubiously at the saddle she'd been seated on for the better part of the day. She isn't sure she wants to go through _that_ again. "Vigilance, lads. Know your shifts and stations. Lady?"

Startled at the direct address, Isobela tilts her head back to meet Carlisle's glance. The man is smiling slightly and his voice is pitched low as he relates to her that she will have her own room as a matter of propriety, but that unfortunately this room will be near the kitchens, as it was the only single bed left available. The knights, he explains, will be on the far side of the inn and the Princes will be each assigned a room and five knights to bunk with, which was evidently a common practice when more than one Elric traveled to a foreign place. Isobela understands the need to separate royal blood, to protect royal blood - as her magic was wont to do - and so she immediately demurs when Carlisle tries to insist that she have her own guard outside her door.

She shakes her head, hugging her quiet rucksack to her chest, feeling the shifting of coiled bodies within. Toree and Ingar are hidden on her person, beneath the thickness of her hair and the generous billow of her cloak respectively. "I do not require additional guards."

Sir Emett, overhearing this, chortles merrily, slapping Carlisle on the shoulder with good-nature and a wink in Isobela's direction. "Quite so, good sir! I believe you shall find that this lady is guarded better than myself!"

"Shall I take offense to that?"

"Only if you-"

"Emett," Sir Edvard interrupts, voice a low dash of censure. Isobela, startled by his sudden appearance at her elbow, holds herself very still, listening as the men continue to make arrangements for their stay in this village, marveling at the amount of organization required, and wondering if she would be required to stand on her aching legs until it came time to retire to the room at the inn. She rather hopes not. "Might I suggest you use your time productively instead of filling the air with inane prattle? Carlisle, I must send a missive to the castle, if we might spare a rider."

"Indeed, sire, I believe the knight most suited…"

She fidgets, shifting on her feet and shivering at the breeze coming from the west, where the sun begins to dip past the mid-day height. Days of travel have left her feeling distinctly out of sorts and her stomach pangs with hunger; she would very much like to locate water to wash and fill her belly with bread, but she will not speak up. She is - timid. The men are talking and it is not her place, as a guest on this journey, as a last minute addition, to make her voice known, even if she had any inclination to be so bold. She will wait and follow the lead of the knights and stifle the uncomfortable urge to hunker out of sight. Isobela is the only augur in this village. She fears that it is terribly obvious, given her state of being - waifish and ragged, so unlike the curious on-lookers, the other women in the village who are bundled tightly with furs and coifed hair, faces clean of the grim Isobela can feel clinging to her skin.

Oh, but she is so terribly out of place. Her eyes linger longingly on the inn and so much is her distraction that she does not notice Sir Edvard's attempts at gaining her attention until he places his wide palm upon the top of her shoulder. She inhales sharply, turning wide eyes to the Prince.

"Forgive my imprudence," he mutters, pulling his hand away. "I did not mean to - that is to say, Jasper will see you to your rooms, if that is agreeable?"

"Y-yes."

Sir Edvard stares at her for a long moment, his dashing grey eyes sweeping across her person with inscrutable focus, the dark scruff lining his cheeks and chin making him seem all the more - Isobela does not know, but her heart jumps in her chest, quickened like a rabbit. The Prince seems to reach a decision, for he turns to Carlisle and says, "We will be staying for at least another day. I believe it prudent for our party to visit the trading market, wouldn't you agree?"

"Aye, my Lord," Carlisle responds with a smile in Isobela's direction.

She does not understand the meaning of this exchange, so lost to socialization as she is, but she can gather that Carlisle is pleased by the Prince's decision, for whatever reason. Sir Emett is of a like mind, it seems, as he grins widely at Isobela, his eyes darting between her and his brother.

It is evident that Isobela has missed something - and she does not know what it might be.

 **oOo**

Isobela is astonished to learn that the tiny room for her at the inn is furnished with a rain-scented down mattress and pillow, goose-feathered wool blankets, and a large, wide copper basin set upon a square thatch of blackened coals cut into the floorboards. The inn-keeper, a robust woman with an abrupt manner, explains that the copper basin can be moved to the wall if the room got cold during the night, or that it can be filled with water now so that Isobela could wash up.

With a frown, Isobela realizes that the inn-keeper's suggestion was rather pointed. She requests water, as she is prompted, and in short order two young boys, no older than a handful of summers and still childlike with lean limbs, lug wooden buckets full of snow into the room, huffing and straining to lift and deposit the snow into the basin. Isobela tries to help, but Jasper - who is monitoring the hallway between the kitchen, the boisterous pub, and Isobela's room - he does not step a foot inside Isobela's space to ensure her propriety, a habit of knighthood that she found remarkable - shakes his head. He will explain, later - Jasper will always be the one to explain, Isobela soon finds - that she is a _lady_ of sorts and that ladies absolutely do not help in menial labor even if, as Isobela quietly points out, they are capable of doing so.

Isobela does not consider herself a lady. Intellectually, however, she is aware that the mundanes view her station differently than the augurs. Among her own kind, Isobela's assignation as the Last Heir of the Clan of Solvej affords her no benefits; augurs are a people of equality and had her Clan still been thriving, the most Isobela could have hoped for was an eventual station as an Elder. As it is, as the last of her Clan, Isobela's chances of becoming an Elder, of holding a smidgen of authority that will guide future generations, is all but dashed, especially in light of her lack of formal magical training. For respect among the augurs, her bloodline would have to be strengthened, proven. Her name and her fate as the last does nothing to better her life, brings no marked benefit that she might be able to use, as her childhood in Sassa had proven. Clans meant power and protection; Isobela had no Clan. She was not a _lady_. She was simply Isobela.

But the mundanes do not see it this way. She isn't sure how they orchestrate their social system, but she has heard enough in passing to understand that the House of Elric were the most powerful of the mundanes, that they were the ruling class, the royals; and she understood that beneath the House of Elric were other Houses, other families that petered from nobility to commoners in some mysterious fashion. Unlike the augurs, who qualified power by magic, the mundanes seemed to qualify power by another source. Money, perhaps, if Isobela is treading the right waters. And to that end, that these mundane knights should insist Isobela is a lady of her own standing - she assumes it means that, in their world, as the daughter of a powerful Clan - House - she is afforded a certain station. The knights consider her blood to be noble.

She will not argue that her blood is noble, not as she understands her father's sacrifice and the actions of her Clan before the fall - but she does not think of _noble_ in the same terms of the mundane men. She does not know how to tell them, how to insist, that she is not what they think she is; she can't detract their address when she knows that, to them, her pedigree is nothing short of pristine even if she _is_ augur.

Isobela hails from a warrior Clan and she is a healer. Nothing more, nothing less. If the knights _must_ consider her a lady, then there is little Isobela can do to stop them.

The inn-keeper's sons depart, leaving a mound of snow sitting proudly in the copper basin, enough so that when it is melted down by the coals below it will easily fill the tub. Isobela studies the metal warily; she had only ever bathed in the rushing rivers of Sassa and isn't quite sure how one is meant to become clean if they sit in water diluted with the filth sloughed from the body. _Mundanes_ , she thinks with amazement. _They did the strangest things_.

"Lady," says Jasper from the hallway and Isobela redirects her gaze, meeting warm brown eyes under a shock of ginger hair. He scratches at the skin beneath his chin, leaning against the doorway with all the casualty that begets youth. Isobela doesn't think him to be any older than herself. "I must continue my guard rotation, but rest assured that one of our party will visit this hallway several times during the night should you need anything. Are you settled?"

"Yes," Isobela replies meekly, casting another glance around the room, which is the most opulent place she'd ever been in her life. Her snakes, all carefully hidden in the rucksack she hugs to her body lest they _\- Ingar_ \- get any brilliant ideas about scaring the mundane inn-keepers. She'd been very clear that they all had to remain out of sight and silent. She knows that Jetta, especially, understands the importance of playing docile around mundanes and she hopes that Jetta will be able to influence the younger snakes into the right sort of behavior.

"Then I bid you farewell until the morrow."

Though Jasper closes the door firmly, the room is not silent, sandwiched as it is between the kitchens and the rest of the inn. Her reactions to the constant influx of noise, often loud bangs and raised voices amid jeering cheers of mundane drunkards, leave her muscles stiffening, tight along her shoulders, her hands. She stares at the door dubiously, wondering if such a thin barrier would truly protect her through the night. She had no reason to leave the room; she and the knights had all sat down in the tavern to feast on hearty, meaty stew, vegetable broth, and freshly baked seedy bread. Her stomach is nearly uncomfortable in fullness and it makes her body feel slow, her mind glacial with fatigue. If she slept, if she were able to find sleep in all this unfamiliar noise, that slumber would be deep - perhaps deep enough that she would not _hear_ if her room was breached -

Isobela pricks her thumb against Toree's fang and sketches out a tiny rune in the middle of the door, watching the magic shimmer with solemn eyes under furrowed brows. She thinks of the Crone as she does this, of the small lessons Isobela had picked up through observation and careful listening, all at the Crone's behest.

Did the Crone know, even then, what would become of her?

Mind put at ease by the warded door, Isobela softly calls out to her snakes, inviting them to circle around the tub as she sheds her clothes, dirty fabric falling around her body in a loose circle. Her skin is awfully pallid by the light of the candles scattered around the room and she shivers, arms wrapped around her torso, as the snow in the copper basin melts under the onslaught of heated coals. Her snakes coil merrily near the embers, basking with drooping eyes and distended stomachs from their last hunt. Only Toree watches Isobela step into the steaming water, breath hissing between her teeth at the strangely wonderful sensation of burning water licking at her skin, soothing and easing her into a state of relaxation she has never known. Isobela's shoulders slip beneath the water, her body contorted in the tub to keep all of her skin, even her knees, completely immersed.

 _Perhaps the mundanes are correct about this form of bathing…_

The only soap in Isobela's possession is lye, which she uses sparingly as she detests the sting as it cleanses her body; though the scent of lye is incredibly strong, it is tempered by the daffodils and chamomile she had painstakingly added into the mixture. Isobela dunks her head repeatedly, combing through water-logged tresses with dogged determination to remove as many tangles as possible. She remains in the bath long after the water starts to cool, her skin pruning and plump by the time she briefly entertains the notion of reheating the water. Ultimately, she decides against this, taking in the murky swirl of water around. She is as clean as can be and, upon exiting the copper basin to drip across wooden planks as she air dries, thoroughly warmed, a fair, rosy pink flush spread across her skin, concentrated at her pulse points, her toes, her fingers. Isobela rummages through her rucksack to retrieve her simple spare woolen dress and the wooden comb she'd made for herself years ago, carefully pulling the prongs through her hair until the blonde locks gleam silver in the muted light.

She believes she is asleep before her head even hits the devilishly soft pillow.

 **oOo**

Isobela wakes slowly with a deep inhale, catching the lingering faint floral scent on her skin and the tightening of serpentine flesh against her own on four separate places on her body - neck, waist, knee, and arm. She is disoriented at first, not understanding where she is, before she recalls in vivid detail the events of the past sun cycles.

What a peculiar situation she has been thrust into.

Although she has not been disturbed, Isobela's magic plucks at her awareness, prompting her to gather her snakes into the rucksack and don the shabby winter cloak she calls her own. She is just removing the wards from the door when there is a brisk knock upon the wood, and she twists the iron knob to find the smiling face of Sir Emett, the bellicose glower of Sir Edvard toward his sibling, and somber gaze of Jasper.

"See, brother? I told you she would be awake, did I not? She seemed like a morning bird, that is what I said."

Sir Edvard exhales heavily. "If I did not know better, I would swear you were raised in a barn for all the lack of cordiality that has been cursed upon you."

"I am wounded!"

"It is good you are awake," says Sir Edvard, apparently intent on ignoring his brother entirely. "We were just preparing to tour the trading market if you are interested in accompanying us. It is, of course, your choice."

Isobela's first inclination is to refuse, but she stifles her negative response - she had never been to a market of any sort, after all, and she _was_ rather curious about the sort of wares the mundane saw fit for trading. She would be too afraid to explore on her own. She is with several knights, however, and is bolstered by the protection they have promised her.

"If it would not be any trouble," she murmurs, hitching her rucksack higher on her shoulder as she averts her gaze from the intensity of Sir Edvard's.

"No trouble at all!" says Sir Emett, eagerly ushering them through the hallway and to the tavern, which is empty and cleaned from the night before.

Isobela is surprised to see how high the sun is as she follows the knights outside; while still morning, it is not nearly as early as she is accustomed to, a fact which she can only attribute to the amazing copper basin at the inn. She has never slept better. She is sure, even, that her magic has taken her slumber as permission to heal the aches in her body, for her thighs do not feel nearly as strained as the night before and the lingering ache of cold in her joints has disappeared entirely.

Marvelous.

The first trading stall that catches Sir Emett' eye is a filled with an assortment of hot foods steaming in the winter air, which he makes a point to taste and pass along to knights who have grumbling stomachs. Isobela is bequeathed with a sweetened roll filled with ripened berries and honey, which she tastes with surprise writ plain across her face. She had no idea food could taste so _good_ or fresh.

Her eyes are drawn to the lovely, lively sights of mundanes interacting with each other, boisterous and joyful and some belligerent, all of it so very different from what she has known her entire life in Sassa. There is no scorn in this village, no hungry children on the outskirts, and seemingly no hierarchy that is observed, save for the occasional deference villagers pay to the knights who look so splendid and important, decked in chainmail and polished armor, furred cloaks around the necks of Princes. She admires it all, absorbing the experience into the deepest recesses of her psyche and whispering, softer than breath, to her snakes, who hold themselves still and pliant in the bottom of her rucksack but answer just loud enough for their words to reach her ears.

" _Shall the speaker bite it?"_ asks Ingar when she relates the stall of stoles and hats made of precious animal furs, feathers, and bones, all weaved with leather and velvet, all shaped rather vaguely like the animal from which the goods hailed.

" _There are hatchlings smaller than the speaker_?" wonders Jetta, who had only ever known humans who were either fully grown, or of similar ages to Isobela. The concept of human babies is a source of fascination to her largest snake and Isobela can tell that Jetta restrains herself from peeking above the fold of the rucksack to see for herself what, exactly, a _babe_ looked like. Isobela's attention is equally as drawn to the view of a mother coddling a newborn as she roots through winter vegetables; she has seen perhaps one infant in her life and never as close as this one, who gurgles and clenches his tiny fists in her direction, swaddled in a thick blanket.

Serpico, she finds, is most interested in the tools used by mundane fishermen, which is not the least bit surprising. " _This one is a far superior water-hunter than cretin_ ," he declares once Isobela has described a peculiar lure made of bright colors that is meant to be attached to the end of a hook on the wooden rod. She is certain that Serpico is right, suppressing a smile.

" _They call for your attention, speaker,"_ Toree reminds her, drawing her attention back to the stall where Sir Emett is busy trying on various hats that press the wild curls of his cropped hair flat against his head. He is talking out loud, animatedly arguing with the trader about the true origins of the hat upon his head.

"Surely not mink? I have seen mink and they are never this color. Hares, perhaps, but not minks!"

"Ye dinae 'ave to buy it, laddie," grunts the trader. He is a grizzled man and portly enough to match his rotund wife, who is sweet-faced and clearly entertained by the spectacle Sir Emett is making of himself, much to his brother's irritation and the amusement of the knights.

Isobela is bemused by the show as well, and does not realize that she has caught the eye of the trader's wife until she bustles right up to Isobela, eyeing her critically and harrumphing with her hands on her hips. "You traveling with these boys, dearie?"

"I am," Isobela answers slowly after casting a questing glance to Jasper, who has been by her shoulder for the entire morning, lowly explaining the sights that she does not immediately understand from the cultural barrier. He is unfailingly kind in this regard, taking care to never make her feel unintelligent for her silent confusion.

The woman tuts, reaching out to boldly examine the threadbare fabric of Isobela's winter cloak. "Well, that just won't do, not at all. Ye come here, girl, and we'll fix ye right up."

Thrown off by the insistence - and by the very notion that she is not being treated as lesser-than simply because of who she is - though, clearly, the woman does not know that she is augur - Isobela protests with round eyes, shaking her head in instant denial. "Oh, no, that is not necessary! I-"

"I'll not hear it!" says the woman, talking over Isobela's muted voice with ease and gently steering Isobela's resisting feet further into the stall, which is filled with so many fabrics of different colors and textures that her head is spinning.

"I really cannot," Isobela protests feebly. The woman is very strong, her hands weathered by callouses in only the way a seamstress could be, and she is pulling Isobela along with all the fortitude of a woman who has raised children. Isobela knows; she has seen this before in Sassa, albeit usually directed to children who do not want to do their chores. "I have no currency-"

"Nonsense!" Sir Emett cuts in brightly, the hat atop his head bobbing with his sudden movement as he quickly follows after the woman dragging Isobela deeper into the stall. He reaches for Isobela's rucksack with a wink, passing if off blindly, much to Isobela's shock. "Here, allow me to take your bag, lady. It shall be safe with Jasper, I promise."

What follows is the single most diverting experience of Isobela's life; the trader's wife brooks no argument as she scours the stall for ready-made dresses that fit Isobela's slender frame, babbling all the while about how Isobela should make an appointment with a tailor at once so that she does justice to the dresses. "Though, with such fair coloring, I cannot imagine ye are going to do them shame," she says as she cinches the waist of a pin-tucked wool dress made in a fine, rich brown with sleeves tight to Isobela's arms and a skirt the bells simply from her waist.

Isobela's protests quickly die off, partially in light of how ineffectual they are, and partially because she senses that Sir Emett is far too entertained by her reluctance and, in a bout of unusual defiance, Isobela refuses to become his jester. And - it's almost _nice_ to be doted on with such warmth, with such concern for her well-being. Though the Seers did their best to take care of Isobela where the villagers would not, she always knew that their primary concern was training the Maidens in their care, and that extended to offering the Maidens the best of what the Seers were capable of providing; Isobela's needs always, _always_ came after that. She was ever so grateful to receive what she did, never bitter for a single day that she was not a priority to someone in her village.

This is different, though, and she understands it for the gift that it is. The trader's wife was absolutely interested in making the best sale possible, that was true, but she did not have to go to the lengths that she did, carefully selecting colors that best suited Isobela in fabrics that Isobela found most comfortable. The trader's wife - Melthalda, she learns - takes great pains to ensure that each piece she selects is crafted without error, even going so far as to select a thick winter cloak lined with thick, white bearskin and declaring that she would sell the expensive piece at a discount because Isobela wore it so well. By the time Melthalda is done and after Isobela has selected the fewest and most versatile clothes possible, she is in possession of two traveling dresses, the cloak, undergarments and double-layered linen slips, thick knitted stockings, and newly-cobbled leather boots lined with fur that chase the chill from Isobela's feet. In the end, as she steps out of the stall dazedly, Isobela wears a third dress of a sort, in the shade of the deepest burgundy with wide-legged trousers sewn to _appear_ as a skirt, a tucked waist, and a high collar that curls beneath her chin, the boots, and the bearskin cloak, her hair falling pin-straight around her face. She isn't sure she's ever been so warm in the winter, or dressed as vividly.

This is how she might have been outfitted had her Clan survived. A sobering thought, one that distracts her as Jasper returns her rucksack to her empty arms. She welcomes the weight and the protection, the safety of her familiars, magic pressing subtly from her skin as she settles her nerves.

"Edvard, the gold," Sir Emett says imperiously, drawing her attention to the transaction taking place.

She feels a stab of guilt when Sir Edvard counts out coins from a leather pouch at his hip, though he does so without protest and with a tip to the trader and his wife. She wonders at his lack of reaction, half-expecting him to toss a comment that would be heedlessly offensive, but none comes, though she waits for the entire day and through dinner in the tavern form such a comment to arise.

Instead, Sir Edvard is taciturn, thoughtful as he eats his meal, as he makes sure that all accommodations for the night have been settled, even as he requests vegetable broth on Isobela's behalf when the inn-keeper forgets. She thanks him - and Sir Emett - again, bowing her head before he departs to the upper level of the inn, and Sir Edvard says nothing. His mouth only twitches in a bare smile, hardly an upturn of full, aristocratic lips.

She is - confused.

But at night, after another steaming bath, she smiles as she sleeps beneath the warm comfort of goose and down, the scent of rosemary from the kitchen lulling her into dreamland.

 **oOo**

" _The cedar-scented one…"_

 _"That cretin who lusts!"_

" _A cretin that is not a cretin."_

" _Nor a vermin."_

" _And what will this-one call him? Not a hatchling! Not a speaker!"_

" _This-one does not know."_

" _The cedar-scented one…he was kind to the speaker…"_

 **oOo**

The road to Nordalta is long.

Isobela knows that Nordalta is in the northern-most area of the kingdom, but she had not imagined that such a place would be so far away, or that it would take her through the wicked clasp of winter bracketing the land with ice, wind, and snow. The journey is on land that is flat, for the most part, and that means that the horses are able to gallop through snowdrifts at a furious clip, which Isobela is much relieved to have gotten used to, aided by Jasper's support as he sits in the saddle behind her. Jasper, so kindred, is apt to impart knowledge; he seems to have picked up a pattern for what Isobela does and does not have understanding of in this journey she's treading, and he fills the silence with informational chatter before she can pose a question.

Sir Emett, for his part, seems to be of a similar mind, though admittedly his commentary tends toward the frivolous, the scandalous, and occasionally the raunchy before his brother see fit to reprimand him. The other knights warm to Isobela, particularly James and Petir, and they teach her valuable mundane skills, such as where to find dried kindling amid the snow, how to use the flint, and which poisonous vegetation of the forest is lethal to them. Isobela has no such vulnerabilities, it seems, as she has been eating these poisonous leaves and berries for her entire life, though that inoculation may easily be attributed to her augur bloodline. She humors their desire to teach her these mundane lessons, and then humors their urgings to use magic to ease the burden of camp setting each night when the men are far too tired to search for wood or battle with flint.

She thinks it is her ability to light the bonfires that ultimately thaws the men toward her. She imagines that they begin to view her as less of a novelty and more of a comrade, especially when her snakes prove themselves more proficient in hunting than the cold-weary men. Jetta and Serpico are always greeted warmly when they drag hares and fish back to the nightly camp, kills gingerly grasped between dry fangs.

Sir Edvard is the only one who remains detached. Aided by the insight provided with time exposed to these men, Isobela suspects that his mercurial disposition is the natural inclination of his personality and takes no offense to his oscillations between seldom speech and waspish irritation so long as he remains courteous, as he always does. She swiftly forgets about the rocky start their association made, though the Crone's words whisper in her ears each day she rises.

Isobela falls into an easy routine. She is typically the first awake, taking the time to herself to perform morning ablutions, melting snow in her palms to wash her face and rinse her mouth as she sits hidden in the brittle haurfrost of winter. Isobela makes herself responsible for dousing the fire after breaking fast rations have been distributed, after which she spends her time gathering her snakes and warming them with her body heat beneath her bearskin cloak as she perches on her horse.

Travel each day is broken by necessary breaks, sometimes due to weather and often due to the inability of the men to remain on the horses for so long, their chainmail offering little protection from the cold as the climate grows more and more frigid. The landside is a tundra, unforgiving and dead, frozen by thick sheets of ice that glint dazzlingly beneath the sun - a beautiful sight which masks the deadly danger that lurks beneath each clop of hooves. It is lucky that James and Carlisle know the route back to Nordalta as well as they do; several times, Isobela is greeted by the unfortunate sight of inexperienced winter travelers who have perished from exposure after having gone off the snow-banked path. On the long days where flurries rush from the sky, it is an unspoken agreement that the knights slow the horses to study the land for hidden moors and fjords.

Winter makes travel very slow indeed, but Isobela is riveted by the new sights, the new smells, and the way the mundane world makes her magic appear passé.

Some nights, when they have bunkered down early in a magically snow-cleared meadow and there is enough time to contemplate such things, the men trade stories over the dying embers in the fire - harrowing tales of heroics, amusing anecdotes that stitch ribs, and legends that have fallen out of fashion but that are still told to children to lay their minds to slumber. It is on one such moonrise a fortnight into their journey that the men turn their curiosities to Isobela, even Sir Edvard.

"Tell a tale!"

"Paganism is so mysterious!"

"Indeed, we know hardly a thing!"

"Indulge a few inquiring minds!"

Flustered, sitting with her back supported by a slender tree, Isobela acquiesces to their request, wracking her mind for all the tales Rosemary imparted to her about her heritage, all the stories that kept her imagination thriving and her belief in her Gods utterly faithful. There are many stories that augurs tell their children, and many more stories that augurs speak of in hushed whispers - but for Isobela, there is but one she can contemplate relaying to these knights who have become her stalwart companions.

"We all hail from the Great Realm, where souls are born and where souls return after death," she begins, her voice falling into the easy, intimate cadence that so often accompanied such stories, such revelations. "It is from the Old Ones that our bloodlines were birthed, one divinity for each the seven Great Clans, but each Clan owes solemn fealty to the Great One, the creator of the realms, the Father of the Old Ones, and the paragon of the Old Ways.

"This much is true - we are told that the Great One, burdened with a single all-seeing eye and black-feathered companions, battled the true evil, the end of all, on His travels through the Mother realm. Though the Great One felled the giant, so forth from His grief came the Mother to Him and said she that all lives are conquered to be returned to the Great Realm and that if the Great One were willing, a sacrifice of himself would balance the disappearance of darkness. The Great One conceded, cutting from His body flesh that became land, tears that became the rivers and oceans, and breath that became the clouds above.

"The Mother was pleased at His efforts, but so demanded that His creation - this realm - was bereft of life, and so the Great One complied, bloodletting from His hands to create the Old Ones, imbuing each with an aspect of himself - His brain for wisdom, His heart for courage, His sight for the moon and stars, His instinct for the huntress, His voice for the thunders, His seed for the harvest, and His very spirit for the strength to safeguard this realms He had created." Isobela pauses, drawing in a shaky breath, her heart beating madly in her chest, rattling against her ribs as her magic pushes and pulses in her blood, drawn forth by the story. Her audience is enraptured, sitting up on elbows, breaths hushed so to better hear the rise and fall of her voice. She wonders how different this tale of creation is from the one that the mundane told their children, wonders if her mythology feels as real and true to them as it does to her. She draws in another breath. "The Mother was so enamored by the Great One's sons and daughters that she bequeathed them each with a special gift unique unto each child, and each Old One took their gifts and became immortal.

"But the Great Realm did not forget that evil had been rid of the realms, as indeed evil rested deep within the bowels of the Great Realm, waiting and watching and yearning for its rebirth. Knowing this, the Great One took aside His son of strength, the child borne of His indomitable spirit, the clever serpent that purveyed the Great One's realm with tacit responsibility. Said the Great One to his son, _There shall be a day when evil is reborn onto this realm and it is your own child that will return the balance - but if that balance cannot be restored, it is your duty to crush this realm so that all the souls resting within may be returned to the Great Realm_.

"The Great One then gifted His child with breath from His lungs and blood from His veins, and His son grew to be the World Serpent, the guardian of the realm wrapped around this earth, squeezing the lands and seas with his mighty coils, knowing that if he released his hold that the realm would implode beneath his scales. And so Jörmungandr slumbered and squeezed, biding his time until the Calling, all the while the Old Ones produced the Great Clans, each of them awaiting the day when they, too, would be called."

 _And so the World Serpent slumbered, biding his time until the Calling._

A shiver races down her spine and Toree, wrapped so securely around her neck, flicks her tongue against Isobela's pulse, tasting the magic right under the pale, translucent surface. Isobela sits back against the tree, pulling her cloak tighter about her shoulders as she stares at the men across the fire.

Surprisingly, it is Sir Edvard - not Sir Emett - to break the silence. "The Clans come from legends?"

"The Great Clans do," she clarifies, gazing through the snow-laden tree boroughs to catch the twinkling winks of stars, tracing the constellation of her own Clan, the mighty serpent. "Seven, or rather six. The Seers are a Clan unto themselves, born from The Great One's sight, but they do not have their own magic and their gifts are not pledged to a single bloodline."

"Then your Clan…The Clan of Solvej is said to hail from the World Serpent? Is that right?"

Isobela blushes, nodding affirmatively. "Yes. I- I have just told you the story of creation as my Clan has always known it, but among augurs, each of the seven Great Clans will tell the same story with a different ending. The Seers speak about the Mother feeding them the stars to further illuminate their sight…"

Sir Edvard - indeed, all the knights - still appear confused, exchanging dubious gazes over the campfire. Though Isobela's magic does not allow her to read minds, it does not take long for it to dawn on her just what their confusion was about.

 _If her Clan was tied to the World Serpent, a God that represented hope and strength, then why was she so-called the Cursed Child?_

Even accounting for the tragedy that befell her family, the Clan of Solvej has always had the distinct honor of bipolarity given their pledge to Jörmungandr - that great serpent did stand for hope, yes, but he also stood for destruction, for rebirth, and wary had been all the other Clans of riling the Clan of Strength for the fear that Armageddon would be brought upon them. That she was the _last_ of a Clan that had distinguished itself for being the strongest, the most powerful, the hardest to kill - and that she had survived as an infant - even by accident, though she knew not of how such a thing could be possible -

Her curse of surviving carried a dark shadow, for none knew what they might expect of the Solvej orphan and the Seer's predilection for her had not eased tensions in Sassa.

And now that her magic was behaving so oddly, Isobela finds that she cannot blame the village for their treatment of her.

She was an albatross, an abomination, and indeed Isobela was cursed.

 **oOo**

 _And so the World Serpent slumbered, biding his time until the Calling._

 **oOo**

Sir Emett is inordinately happy as he jumps from his horse, arms spread wide as he declares, "Home! Ready the mead and roasting ducks, for we have returned!"

Isobela smiles at his display, struggling to push away the nerves crawling up her throat and robbing her of speech, her muscles drawn in tension as she remains astride her horse after Jasper dismounts. Despite her anxiety, it seems as though Sir Emett' enthusiasm has spread to the knights; James claps Carlisle on the back, congratulating him on the awesome feat of returning _both_ Princes to Nordalta; Petir begins speaking of all the luxuries of the castle, casting a sheepish glance to her after he wonders aloud about various wenches; even Sir Edvard seems to relax by fractions, loosening Igor's reins a smidge and rolling his eyes at his brother's antics.

She does not mimic to ease of the others, as her eyes are locked upon the impressive sight of the castle perched upon the highland, protected by a scour of skeletal trees, the jut of rocky cliff faces, and a deep, wide moat frozen solid and slick. From afar, the stones of the castle seem immutable, the darkest shade of brown, perhaps black, and polished to gleam in the low winter sun; spiking turrets line the high cresting bridges between spiraling towers, architecture that balances precariously between overwhelmingly ornate and unimaginably threatening. She thinks, somewhat idle, that the castle of Nordalta reflects exactly what she knows about the Heirs of the Ruling House of Elric. Impenetrable. Dark. Disarming.

Mysterious.

With some trepidation, Isobela clucks at her horse, urging the mare forward in line with the rest of the contingent of returning knights. The passage through the village sitting peaceably below the castle proper is fraught with excitable cheers as well-to-do commoners - arguably, the best-kempt paupers Isobela has ever regarded - notice the return of royal blood into Nordalta's protective fold. If questing glances are spared for her, she does not notice, unable to look away from the ever-larger visage of the looming castle decorated with Elric banners of black and gold. Her snakes are conspicuously silent, sensing the meek cringe of the magic within her veins.

As the drawbridge is lowered over the frozen moat, a lingering thought whispers through the back of her mind, a thought so marinated in tension that her heart instantly jumps to clog her throat.

 _It is too late to turn back now._


	15. Fourteen: The King

**Fourteen – The King**

Edvard had not realized quite how much he'd missed his home, a castle of ebony as dark as the curls upon the heads of the Elric family, a fortress so soundly defensible that his confidence in the safety of his back was unquestionable - a _home_ , truly, if ever there were such a concept in a space so formidable.

And yet he finds himself inspecting this place with the same weary eye as the newcomer in their party, abruptly unsettled by the height of the walls, by the obvious weaponry stockpiled beneath the ramparts, by the scrutinizing gaze of courtiers creeping outside to suss the source of commotion that follows Emett' obnoxious bellowing. His eyes have been drawn to Isobela, an occurrence that is not at all rare as of late, or perhaps was not rare to start. Though she is still lovely, wild and untamed with orchid-bright eyes and silvery hair whipping in the wind, her posture is strung with tension, a fine wire of high shoulders, stiff-spine, and thinned lips, and Edvard thinks that this is a different version of the girl he has come to know.

This is the girl he'd first seen in Sassa as she withstood the curiosity of augur villagers. Guarded, unsure. Nothing to hint at the power which he has seen, or the easy confidence that seems to bloom in her at the slightest provocation. She lingers astride the horse that might as well be hers, a gentle mare that he has caught her whispering to when she thinks Jasper is not watching - though, of course, Jasper is a good knight and takes his charge of protecting the Last Heir of Solvej, as decreed by Edvard personally, very seriously and so he is always watching. Isobela's slender hands bunch the reins between her fingers, but that is the only tell of her unease; her expression is otherwise placid, more serene than he suspects her to actually feel in this strange place he has brought her to, this place that has always carried a connotation of expectation.

Edvard's eyes flit about, absorbing the changes made in the courtyard in his absence. Winter has always been harsh and unforgiving in Nordalta given that the castle proper and Nord, the village surrounding the highlands, are in the upper-most regions of the kingdom - a kingdom which already rests much farther north than the surrounding rules. In the moon-turn that it has taken the knights to travel back from Sassa, winter has fully embraced the lands, thick in the trees and thicker on the ground; though the castle itself is made of stones that repel flame and water and does not abide snow on the surface, the courtyard is decorated with heaps of snow shoveled in corners and wheeled in barrows by young squires to gather in great lumps on the frozen moat. The savage beauty of the season is encapsulated by the icy daggers hanging from black-stone archways and Edvard, like all experienced courtiers, remembers to keep a wary eye on those icicles, lest one fall and impale him.

He's certain it would be a tragedy to leave his King with Emett as the most viable heir to the House of Elric.

Edvard dismounts smoothly, landing with a beat of worn boots on frozen ground, and hands off his reins to the nearest squire, a lad who has rushed forward to lead tired horses around to the protected, warm stables and the capable stablehands hired by the castle matrons. The rest of his party does much the same, Isobela slipping off her horse with the assistance of Jasper, who dutifully - and unflinchingly - holds that rucksack of snakes in his arms as the lady is otherwise occupied. Edvard presses his lips together as Isobela fusses with her travel dress, raising her eyes beneath her lashes to see if anyone has caught her unrefined dismount.

They have not. As per usual, all attention is drawn to Edvard and Emett, and though the arrival of a young, pretty girl with a contingent of knights who had not been seen for neigh three moons is certainly interesting, it is not as interesting as the return of Princes to the castle keep. And he is grateful for this attention for once - Edvard has come to the point in his interactions with the petite augur that he would go to great lengths to spare her discomfort, even at the expense of fielding insipid courtiers alongside Emett, who basks in the attention as is his wont.

Edvard nods meaningfully to Carlisle as he rudely turns his attention away from the daughter of a Lord that he cannot be bothered to recall and Carlisle nods in return, directing hushed directions to the knights - dismissing all save Jasper, Petir, and James, as had been agreed upon the night previous. The knights were free to return to whatever home would welcome them, perhaps the arms of lovers and wives or to the excitement of children. The remaining knights, including Edvard and Emett, had to report directly to the King, as was expected.

"If you would excuse me," Edvard says as he turns back to the courtiers, though he makes no eye contact with any of them as he reaches forward, grasping the metal-clad shoulder of his brother. "We have an audience with the King, and it would not do to keep him waiting."

"Farewell!" Emett chimes in jovially, a large grin and roguish wink aimed at the eager ladies clamoring for his attention. "Brother, it is good to be home!"

"Indeed, it is a miracle you survived so long in the absence of your sycophants," Edvard replies dryly, ducking beneath black stone eaves and beginning the journey through the public castle, nodding curtly to Lords and Ladies in the grand hall, and moving swiftly enough toward the private wings that he is not delayed. The knights troop along after him, Isobela's whisper-soft steps more quiet than the growing murmurs Edvard hears about her presence. He scowls openly - he has always hated the gossip mill of court, and it is a distinct displeasure to be returned to that environment after blissful months of travel that had taken him far, far away.

It isn't until Edvard is standing before the door to his father's private chambers, flanked by his men and a single young woman, that he realizes it might have been best to beg off an immediate audience in favor of freshening before meeting the King. Their group, as a whole, is mud-splattered, damp with frigid water from melted snow, and unkempt; the knights, in particular, are heavy of beard and in dire need of trimmings, their cheeks gaunt from prolonged months of travel rations. Of all of them, Isobela appears the least encumbered, somehow as radiant as the first time Edvard laid eyes on her. He attributes it to her strange magic, but perhaps he is wrong and her constitution is derived from the clear strength of her person. She had not complained once over the course of their travels and Edvard, who recalled Ealice's constant whinging on the last day-trip he'd had to endure in her presence, had silently marveled at the phenomenon. He's certain the other knights had been of a similar mind. Isobela's steady countenance had gone a long way to soothe the tension sprung from the oddity of traveling with a woman - but for all this, Edvard is not able to make a prediction on how the next few moments would unfold.

His father was not an unkind man, though, and once the guards have announced Edvard and Emett to his father's chamber, the returning Princes are greeted with a warm smile and a hardy handshake. True to the protocol of court, the King pays no mind to the three knights standing at attention in the center of the room, or of the girl with down-cast eyes loitering behind them. Instead, he welcomes his sons, imparting grateful words that their party had returned whole and unharmed, and then promising Emett that they would be having a private discussion - later - about the propriety of shirking his duties to gallivant across the country.

"It was hardly _gallivanting_ ," Emett mutters, ignoring the exasperated sigh of the King as he continues blithely, crossing his arms over his chest. "I would have you know that it was a highly gratifying learning experience, father, and nothing I took heart to lightly."

"And yet, you should not have done it," Perseus chides, reclining back in the bear-skinned chair he'd risen from as soon as he had company. There are stray parchments and unopened rolled missives scattered across the low table before the hearty hearth and the King's eyes are lined in tension at the corner, all clear signs that the Prince's had interrupted one of their father's infamous brooding periods, an activity that Edvard had inherited. "As I said, we will discuss your actions at length at a later time. I believe you have come to report on the mission that kept you away for so long."

Edvard clears his throat. "Yes, my Lord. At your bequest, we have successfully sought out all rumorings of the Cursed Child of Sassa and we have determined that the proposed threat is negligible," he says, hesitating and casting a glance over his shoulder, steeling himself when curious orchid eyes raise to meet his, heir to heir. "In fact, we found that this child was not cursed at all, but rather the victim of a rather unfortunate circumstance…and we have brought her to see you."

"Have you?" the King questions, steeling his gaze as he follows Edvard's line of sight, a furrow of contention marring the brow partially obscured by bronze, gold, and iron. "Come forward, girl."

Isobela dithers for only a moment, softly setting her rucksack down and stepping forward with a tentativeness that wrenches something in Edvard's chest. She curtsies, a clumsy dip of her head with wobbling legs, unpracticed and unrefined, but the intention is clear enough. She means to respect the King as wholly as she respects all else. "My King," she whispers, hardly louder than a breath, her hair swinging forward in a shift of silvery-blond shimmer that instantly captures the attention of the King.

And recognition, for Perseus Elric leans forward, hands falling to clutch at the armrests beneath his elbows with a ferocity that turns his knuckles white - and he gasps, low and shocked, perhaps seeing a memory play in his mind, perhaps comparing Isobela to figures that only the King can recall. Cool granite eyes snap to Edvard. "Are you quite certain _this_ is the Cursed Child?" he demands, a shadow of emotion crossing the aged lines of his face.

What had the Crone said? _You know of her Clan. Do you not think your father would wish to see the consequences of his actions? Even Kings need reminders that their words are great inspiration to their constituents._

Guilt. His father looks - guilty and stricken in a way that Edvard has only ever associated with reports of crops lost to fire or villages continuing public executions against his decrees. And the King feels this for a single girl, or rather, for a single Clan that he unknowingly sentenced to death. He looks at the surviving member of the Clan of Solvej as if he has seen a ghost.

Perhaps he has.

"A mistaken moniker," Edvard says and Isobela inhales sharply, slowly relaxing from her curtsey but keeping her hands fisted in the folds of her muddy traveling dress. She's so still, hardly breathing; Edvard can almost feel her nerves curling through the room, casting a shadow of unease upon them all.

"I see," murmurs the King, staring at Isobela for a long, protracted moment before snapping at one of the squires standing near the door under the shadow of a guarding knight. "Go fetch my personal manservant, boy, and have him see to the accommodations of our guest. Have her placed in the familial apartments."

"Sire! Aye, my Lord," the boy squeaks, darting off to do the King's bidding without a backward glance.

"My King," says Edvard, folding his hands behind his back. "You should be aware that the Lady Isobela has…guests of her own. Companions, in a sense."

As if on cue - and the snakes, Edvard has learned, are very intelligent, so perhaps they knew they were being spoken of - the rucksack rustles and two serpentine heads poke from beneath folds of limp fabric, the summer-bright snake about Isobela's neck twisting into view beneath the hood of a winter cloak. The King, to his credit, doesn't flinch at the appearance of these creatures, which is more than Edvard can say for his own reaction, as even now the mere sight of deadly magical beasts raises the hair on the back of his neck. Rather, the King leans forward, interested in this turn of events, though he seems to be grappling with an appropriately diplomatic response.

"They are tamed?" he finally settles on, gaze keen on the bobbing head of the snake Isobela calls Toree.

"They are not dangerous, my Lord," she says, reaching a slender hand to level with her neck, catching the attention of the entire room as Toree's tongue flickers against her pulse, benign, non-threatening to her mistress.

But the King - and Edvard - hear what she does not say. The snakes might not be dangerous, but they are in no way tamed. His father allows this to slide, however, and bids Isobela to a pleasant evening once the squire and the King's personal manservant return to the chambers to lead her to new, hopefully comfortable accommodations.

He then dismisses the Edvard's knights, the guards, and the squire, instructing the boy to close the door behind him - leaving father and sons alone, each staring at each other for a long moment, waiting for the ears in the hall to peter away.

"That girl," Perseus whispers, rubbing at the heavy beard on his jaw. "It is remarkable how alike she looks to her parents. Her father…"

"Murdered, along with the rest of her Clan," says Edvard flatly. "That _girl_ has seen more hardship in her life than I care to contemplate. She was left to raise herself, to be reliant upon the shallow kindness of that village, and God knows what else, Father. She is too kind by half and innocent, but not naïve-"

"Rather keen, I would say," Emett agrees, draping himself across a lounge near the fire, propping his chin on his fist as he watches the byplay of expressions passing between the King and the Heir Apparent, a volley of twitching brows and taut mouths.

"She knows who you are and why her family was killed in cold blood," Edvard stresses. "There doesn't seem to be any ill-will, but there was a Seer, a Crone, who foretold a meeting between the two of you so that you might assuage yourself of guilt."

 _Guilt which you rightly deserve, Father, for you were carless_ , he does not say, though he is burning to do so, burning to utter treason against his King for this _girl_ , this tiny wisp of a thing with terrifying magic and wide, soft eyes the color of spring blooms.

"I have many regrets and the tragedy that befell that girl is but one on a list longer than my sword," says the King. "Had I known what might happen…And there had been no reports of survivors of the Solvej Clan, not that any of the augurs are eager to reach out to the crown, even for assistance in their trials…This misnomer, this rumor of her being cursed, though - does it not hold an ounce of truth? Is there not anything about the girl that might be cause for concern?"

Edvard and Emett exchange a heavy glance. Though the brothers do not agree on much, it is clear to each of them that the other has grown protective of the girl who had been traveling with them for a moon. Emett knows not of the magic that Isobela had performed at the base of the Altar mountains, though, and Edvard would prefer to keep that secret, and so he says, "Nothing. She's just a girl."

 _Who can talk to snakes, who wields magic like breathing, who smiles so rarely that Edvard's chest clenches at the sight, as if he is witnessing the break in clouds that let the heavens shine upon the land._

"She's a healer," Emett adds helpfully. "Healed me, actually. But that's not truly concerning, aside from revealing how inadequate our physicians are. They could learn a thing or two from Isobela."

"Isobela," repeats the King, seeming to weigh her name on his tongue, immense and unspeakable sadness in the faraway of his gaze. He exhales heavily. "You mean to keep her here, then?"

 _Yes_.

"The Crone seemed to think that it was important," he says instead. "Riddles were exchanged and I've not yet made head or tails of whether the old woman said anything true, but her so-called prophecies were the only reason Isobela agreed to lead us away from that horrid village."

His father frowns severely. "Do not be so quick to undermine the prophecies of a Seer. I have heard unbelievable utterances become truths."

"Duly noted, Father, but I find that I am rather parched from such a long journey," Emett yawns with exaggeration, standing and stretching his arms over his head as he edges toward the door. "I believe I'll just leave you two to sort out the-"

"Sit."

"But I-"

" _Sit down_ , Emett, or so help me you are not too old to be taken over a knee," the King warns, waiting until the princeling has plopped back onto the lounge before appraising Edvard. "You may go. Rest. Bathe. There will be a welcome feast that I bid you both to attend later. Do make sure your sister and her new companion, the Lady Isobela, will be in attendance."

"Yes, Father."

"And Edvard?"

"My Lord?"

"That girl is a princess in her own right and her well-being in this castle is your burden. Do not fail."

Edvard bows his head, deferential, feeling the weight of the promise that passes his lips. "I will not fail her."

 **oOo**

It occurs to Edvard to wonder about the discarded missives that had etched such stress upon the King's face long after he has already departed.

A good Prince would have asked, would have immediately inquired as soon as the topics had changed from their newest guest and further reports of the state of the kingdom. Edvard had been _taught_ to maintain his curiosity in matters where his interest is piqued, and as he had noticed that furrow in his father's brow, he _should have asked_.

But a good King would have his reasons for keeping secrets rather than offering information. And his father, above all else, is a _good_ King.

Perseus Elric might not have answered even if Edvard had thought to inquire.

 **oOo**

Fergus, his most recent manservant, is awaiting Edvard in his chambers beside the already prepared copper tub of steaming bathwater; he has added cedar chips and fig oil to the water, as is Edvard's preference, and is deft in the removal of Edvard's armor and chainmail, handling his sword with great care as Edvard steps out of his breeches. Dropping his smallclothes onto the floor, Edvard sinks into the welcome warmth of water, which is hot enough that he hisses through his teeth at the sudden change in temperature.

"Too hot, my Lord?"

Edvard shakes his head, slipping down further until his shoulders are covered by water. "Quite the opposite, I assure you. A welcome change from the bitter winds of travel."

Fergus ducks around the tub, collecting the trail of clothes Edvard has left behind before passing along a roughened rag that Edvard uses to scrub the grime of travel off his skin. It is a blessed relief to be home, to be back with the accommodations that he has grown so accustomed to, but he feels so starkly different in this homecoming, as if he has changed beyond what the measure of court will expect from him. His mind is miles away as Fergus trims his curls and assists in clearing the mass of facial hair that has warmed Edvard's jaw for the past several fortnights.

Edvard tilts his chin back so that Fergus might have a better angle, but the action is far, far removed from the dwelling of his mind - which, as is the ever-oft occurrence, has focalized once again on Isobela of the Great Clan of Solvej. Isobela the augur, Isobela the healer, Isobela the kind and innocent and pure. _Isobela_.

She would be having her own bath at the moment, he's sure, and he's equally sure that she will find the maidservant assisting her to be an incredibly foreign, if not outright uncomfortable, experience. She is not like Edvard and his siblings, or even minor nobles. It was likely that Isobela had not had assistance bathing since she was a very small child, even more likely that she had no opportunity to shed modesty in the presence of those beneath her station given her evident standing in that village of her bloodline. Between knighthood and being Prince, Edvard's modesty had long-since evaporated; he spared no second thought to the presence of a manservant like Fergus who would be exposed to his nude form, and knew that Ealice and Emett were much the same.

Isobela was _different_ , though, and Edvard frowns at the notion that she might be uncomfortable in this castle for any reason. He's sure that she wouldn't think to dismiss the maidservants helping her - she was far too timid - and it was inappropriate for _Edvard_ to do so on her behalf, but perhaps Ealice could step in. Perhaps Ealice could even be persuaded to show Isobela how life at court works - his sister certainly had the time that Edvard could not spare.

But he wishes that his time was not already spoken for, though the thought is absurd. Ludacris. He is a Prince, a First Heir, and now that he has returned home, every moment of his time would be accounted for - by maintaining the training demanded by the knighthood, by participating in the privy counsel alongside his father, and by furthering his education in the areas of interest that are most relevant to ruling a kingdom as far reaching as the greater land of Nordaltarn, which was easily double the size of the bordering territories controlled by other crowns. His time was spoken for; he had none to spare.

His siblings, though, had less obligations and Emett in particular was keen to shirk those obligations as soon as possible. He would have to speak to the twins about ensuring Isobela's acclimation as soon as possible, perhaps at the very feast that Edvard was wearily preparing for.

Out of the bath, he allows Fergus to assist in drying the bathwater from his skin, directing the boy to search his wardrobe for specific items as he runs a cotton cloth through his dripping black curls, which he brushes with fig oil, wincing at the pull of tangles slipping apart. In the time that Edvard has been absent, Fergus has grown more confident in his abilities as a manservant, likely having taken the three moons to properly learn the roll, which Edvard approves of with pride - enough pride, in fact, that he begins to seriously think about keeping the boy on his service, something he hasn't done since nursemaids had been dismissed upon Edvard's puberty. Fergus is swift and prompt, sure-fingered as he adjusts the leather laces on the sides of the stone-grey doublet Edvard pulls on over the soft white tunic he tucks into matching leather breeches. The manservant holds a black surcoat open, buckles boots before he is asked, and takes the initiative to switch Edvard's travel-worn sword-holster for a newer, darker version.

A competent manservant who has already learned Edvard's habits so thoroughly is something to be admired, and Edvard says as much to Fergus, clapping him on the shoulder. "Be sure to let the head matron that you have been placed on my service permanently," says Edvard.

"Aye, my Lord."

Edvard pauses at the door of his chambers, another thought tumbling through his mind. "Fergus."

"My Lord."

"Have you any recommendations of maidservants that have proven themselves genteel and discrete?"

"My Lord?"

Edvard turns, latching onto this idea. It would be too much trouble to speak with his siblings - it would certainly be far too amusing to Emett and Ealice would find it suspicious that he would concern himself with Isobela's _maids_ \- but his manservant, who Edvard suspects will be very loyal indeed, especially if he takes the care to reward him well - Fergus was the optimal choice in easing Isobela's acclimation to castle life for as long as she would remain in Nordalta. Edvard could already sense trust building between himself and his manservant; this assignment, this inquiry of Fergus' opinion, would surely seal that trust.

"We have brought a special guest to the castle, Fergus, a girl near my sister's age who is not accustomed to castle life. She is an augur," he confides, watching Fergus' reaction sharply for any untoward responses, but his manservant's expression remains politely curious, honest, and he continues, growing more confident in his idea. "I only wonder if perhaps you have noticed any maidservants on the rotation that would be well fit to the Lady Isobela's exclusive care. Mayhaps someone who had experience enough to guide her through the expectations of life at court."

Fergus straightens, silent, appearing to think very carefully about this request, which Edvard appreciates. "My Lord…I confess that I do not know the maidservants well enough to judge any of their attitudes. But I," he pauses, seeming to steel himself. "But, sire, my cousin has worked as a maidservant for a summer longer than myself and I believe her disposition to be agreeable enough for your uses."

"And this cousin's name?"

"Rosalie, my Lord."

Admittedly, Edvard is less informed than his manservant on the details of the various maids roaming the castle, but he prompts Fergus to divulge the details of this cousin and grows warmer to the idea. If the girl is half as open as Fergus, then Edvard has no doubts that she would serve Isobela well. He instructs Fergus to have the matron assign his cousin to Isobela's exclusive detail at once - after, of course, Fergus establishes his authority over the matron by explaining his own promotion - and leaves for the welcome feast with his tired feet buoyed by the thought that he would not have to worry about Isobela's comfort in the castle.

 **oOo**

If only all problems were solved so easily.


	16. Fifteen: The Welcome Feast

**Fifteen – The Welcome Feast**

"My Lady, that is not quite how it is worn," titters one of the young maids that had been waiting for Isobela upon her arrival to the rooms that had been assigned to her by the good King himself. Each of the maids were outfitted in demure grey dresses that matched the Elric banners hanging in the hallways, hair pulled away from their faces and waists cinched tightly by the same contraption they now attempt to dress Isobela in - a short slip of cotton-covered herringbone with ribbons climbing up the back that one the maids calls a _corset_.

Isobela feels incredibly confined by this corset, her ribs squeezed together, breasts pressing toward each other, breathing constricted as the maids work to tighten the laces, even as Isobela meekly, breathlessly protests. "Is that not tight enough?"

"Afraid not, my Lady," giggles the second maid, her cool hands falling to the dip of Isobela's waist and pushing inward to better assist the first in creating the right shape. Isobela's face flushes at the newest round of humiliation presented to her at this castle - the first, of course, being the unrelenting assistance in _bathing_ not a half-hour earlier. It was this second maid, in fact, that had ignored Isobela's protests to the rigorous scrubbing of her skin, and the first that had insisted upon dragging a comb directly through the tangles of Isobela's head, heedless to each wince Isobela had made as her hands gripped the sides of the copper basin.

She had thought - initially, perhaps foolishly - that it was simply the way of the mundanes to disregard propriety in favor of cleanliness and to trade that cleanliness for pain. Now, though, she is not so sure. She feels quite paranoid for even thinking it, but it almost seems as if the maids are trying to hurt her, as they had latched upon the information from the King's manservant that Isobela was an augur with a peculiar gleam in their eyes.

Isobela had not looked at either girl since, intimidated by their solidarity and the fact that they were perhaps a year or so older than herself.

Ingar, of course, had suggested she put them in her place, referring to the maids as _weak vermin_ \- but Isobela could not do that. She could not use her magic against mundanes and she could not allow her snakes to slither near the feet of the maids in order to cow them. The shrieking from earlier had still yet to fade from her ears.

Pulling in a desperate inhalation, Isobela nods in deference to the maids, placing her hands on her flattened stomach as they continue to _pull_ , and _tug_ , and laugh to each other -

Isobela does not even notice that the door to her chambers had been opened until an orotund female voice cuts sharply into the stone walls and hanging furs of the room. "Pardon me, but what exactly is happening here? Can you not see that she struggles for air? Step away at once!"

"We were assigned-"

"I care not for your _assignment_ ," says the intruder - another maid in that impeccable grey dress - closing the door behind her with a decisive _click_ and marching toward Isobela with purpose, pushing away the other maids and deftly loosening the laces of the corset. Isobela breathes in deeply, greedy for the expansion of her lungs beneath her breast, the shadows at the corner of her eyes chased away as she is able finally inhale unencumbered. "You will leave, now."

" _We_ were selected to assist-"

The new maid cuts off the angry tone with a taut, "And I was specifically requested by the manservant to the First Prince to be the Lady Isobela's personal _, exclusive_ maid. I am dismissing you at once. Be gone."

There are few grating protests from the first two maids as they leave the room, slamming the chamber door behind them as they follow those orders - and Isobela is not well-versed in how the mundanes operate, but she knows enough to realize that this new, kinder maid has been able to pull rank on the other two, in large part assisted by Sir Edvard's timely interference. Perhaps he had not known what Isobela would be subjected to, but he had helped her nonetheless, and so had the gentle-handed girl at her back.

 _"Speaker, I believe I enjoy this new two-legged,_ " says Toree from her station beneath the curtain of bedding, the closest the snake had been able to get to Isobela without being seen again.

" _Indeed,"_ replies Isobela, less breathless than before. Then she turns her attention to the striking blond girl a few sun cycles older than herself who is still loosening the stays methodically. "Thank you."

"Think nothing of it. I would have done the same for any Lady assigned to my attention. I haven't a clue why they felt the need to tie this dastardly device so tightly. You're already quite thin enough, I think," she murmurs, finishing with the corset and stepping around Isobela to curtsy, bowing her head gracefully, golden curls tumbling from the knot at the base of her neck. "Rosalie, at your service, my Lady."

"You have my gratitude all the same, Rosalie," says Isobela, speaking slow enough that she does not stammer. It is so disarming to be exposed to so many people in such a short space of time. She'd become so very accustomed to the knights, and before them, the isolation in Sassa with the exception of her snakes. "But I am no Lady, I assure you."

"I must address you with respect as your station demands it," counters Rosalie, straightening from her curtsy and smoothing her skirt. Her eyes are a warm, green-tinted blue, gaze direct and unflinching, adding to the loveliness of her face and demeanor. "If not Lady, then how shall I address you? As Princess, as my cousin hinted?"

Isobela's brow furrows. She suspects she is missing another piece of mundane social culture, but she had no idea how to counteract her deficiency aside from muddling through. "I-I am not a Princess," she whispers, tangling her fingers together, alarmed at the very notion of such a ridiculous claim. "I am augur - a healer - we have no _titles_ …"

Rosalie seems to measure her in that moment, for she leans forward with a conspiring slant to her smile. "I suspect we will be spending much time together, so I propose we compromise on this issue. In private, I will refer to you by your given birth name, but should we be in public, I must insist on addressing your station. Might we agree to this, Isobela?"

"Yes. Yes, thank you."

Rosalie smiles. "Shall we finish preparing you for the feast?"

Isobela nods, running her palms down the herringbone corset again. "Must I truly wear this?"

"It is a burden of womanhood," says Rosalie, reaching forward to draw Isobela's hand further into the light flicking from the candles and the hearth. She peers at Isobela's skin, tsking with disapproval. "Did they scrub you with copper wool? Goodness. We will have to send for some salve to cool your skin before you are dressed, else you will appear as if you've broken into hives and rashes."

Isobela's cheeks heat - but not from embarrassment this time. Rather, she's miffed at herself for allowing those maids to shred the skin off her back with their rough treatment, for allowing them to laugh at her and bind her middle so tightly together that she would have fainted from lack of air had Rosalie not arrived at that very minute. It is a dreadful way to begin her time at the castle. She can't imagine that Rosemary or the Crone would approve of Isobela withstanding such abuse.

She would have to be stronger. Isobela was a lone augur among mundanes and it put her at a serious disadvantage. She could not count on timely rescues, she could not risk the protection of her snakes, she could not use magic to defend herself - and so _she_ would have to summon the courage to protect herself in the mundane way by using her words and the power of the station she'd evidently been granted.

"I can heal this myself, thank you. There is no need to send for a salve," Isobela declares, straightening her spine and shoulders, calling upon her magic and her connection to Toree to sooth the bright red scratches marring the smooth paleness of her skin. Drawing upon her magic without a blood sacrifice is an odd experience, an unnatural drain, a miracle without a payment - through their budding connection, Isobela knows that Toree feels this as well. It is inadvisable to do magic without a fair and equal exchange. The Crone had always warned against such a thing. But Isobela is so _uncomfortable_ in this castle, under the careful and scrutinizing gaze of another girl, and she does not think for a moment of nicking her skin to pay for the magic she is using.

She sways minutely, standing stiffly in nothing but her small clothes and the corset, shivering as her still-drying hair leaves her shoulders and neck damp. She aches for her home, suddenly, for the hovel in which she grew up - ostracized, yes, but comfortable.

There is nothing to be done for it. Isobela has been thrown into the deepest shallows of the river and she must learn to swim, else she shall sink.

"Marvelous. Simply marvelous, that magic. So very convenient," says Rosalie when she has finished, turning away to examine the trunk that Isobela has come to identify as her own. The golden latches lift easily under Rosalie's hands, and the maid spends several moments deciding between two of the dresses Sirs Edvard and Emett purchases for her all those moons ago. "I suppose this one will have to do. We shall call for a tailor on the morrow, the best tailor in Nord, and then we shall see to supplying your wardrobe more appropriately. I'm terribly fretful that you shall be underdressed tonight."

"It is fine."

After all, Isobela had been underdressed her entire life, had she not? Another night would not harm her - and the dress in Rosalie's hands is made of the finest fabric to ever touch Isobela's skin. She'd not even worn it yet, wary of the leather ties crawling up the sides that pleat the skirt about the hip and rear, creating a volume to the lower fabric that was not at all suitable to the harsh conditions of travel.

With succinct, economic movements, Rosalie assists Isobela into the billowing fabric of the dress, commenting with a small smile on how well the deep, dark pansy compliments that shade of her eyes. "Very arresting," Rosalie says reassuringly, braiding the sides of Isobela's silvery hair into a complicated twist near the base of her skull, strands falling straight to the small of her back. "It would be a shame not to have multiple dresses in this shade, so we shall have to show the tailor this fabric. I do not believe I have seen any Ladies wearing a color quite so vibrant at court, but that is fine. You are fair enough that the darkness is offset quite nicely…"

 **oOo**

Rosalie does not argue when Isobela insists on affixing Toree to drape around her neck, though she does watch as Isobela does this with doubt writ plain across her face. The neckline of the dress is high enough, voluminous enough, that Toree's vibrant scales are lost or easily mistaken for jeweled adornments if one does not look too closely.

 _Ingar_ argues, however, when Isobela makes to leave. While Jetta and Serpico are leery of allowing her out of their sight, they are reassured by Toree's presence. The albino cobra is not as easily swayed.

" _Speaker, you are weak and the cretin will latch upon this weakness! This-one's fang shall shield you!"_

 _"The speaker has this-one's fangs, Ingar,"_ Toree points out.

Ingar hisses derisively. He has never been impressed by Toree's venom and he could care less that his size, just as long as Isobela is tall, though as slim as Toree, had the potential to cause complications in a banquet hall full of mundanes.

But in the end, Isobela allows Ingar to slither up her leg, wrapped securely from her knee to her ankle in his customary coil. " _You shall behave, Ingar. You shall not bite."_

 _"Only if the vermin do not tempt me."_

 **oOo**

The Great Hall which Isobela had passed through earlier is much darker now, illuminated only by muted light emanating from wall-mounted iron candelabras which burn and flicker and fill the large, rectangular room with the faint scent of honeyed wax. The ambiance is unfamiliar to Isobela, who is so accustomed to the single candle-lit darkness of her hovel and, more recently, the quiet roar of a small bonfire in the middle of camp that just barely chased the cold away. Her steps stutter at the entrance and she stands still, shadowed by the magnificently carved wooden bannister of the stone stairway she had just carefully climbed down.

The amount of mundanes packed into one space is alarming.

Although the Seers had made a point to emphasize the goodness of King Elric, they had not been shy in revealing the common cruelty mundanes had shoveled onto augurs during the darkest time of the mundane civil war - and the villagers, more often her peers, had been apt at unraveling the latest horrific tales of mundane treatment of augurs from the surrounding kingdoms. Nothing terrible had happened to Isobela yet. Certainly, her time with the knights and the Princes had not left her scalped or burned or scarred, as she had been led to believe. But she was not prepared to write-off those exaggerated warnings of Stephen and his gang, nor the supplicant truths of the Seers who could not lie.

She is not sure she has the courage to enter the lion's den.

Yet. Isobela is already in the castle.

Toree's scales slide against her neck, warmed by her body heat, and Isobela releases an unsteady breath that she hadn't been aware she was holding, high in her lungs, frozen in the shadow in her opulent gown that was a touch too thin for the bitter frost of the most northern lands in the kingdom. She shivers, taking a step forward, chin angled toward the floor. She cannot summon the will to look up and meet the eyes she feels burning into her skin. Only Toree and Ingar's steady presence, their constant reminder that she is not _alone_ , keeps her from visibly shaking with the anxiety coursing through her veins, coaxing her magic to rise defensively in her blood. She's positive that if she looked up in this moment, her eyes would glow with the damning power of her bloodline.

So she does not raise her eyes.

Behind her, Rosalie's soft-soled shoes shuffle in her wake. The girl had explained that it was very common for personal maidservants to remain in the presence of important Ladies, especially during feasts; evidently, it was common enough that important Lords also required their manservants at their elbow to refill mead and platters as necessary. It was some consolation that Rosalie's stalwart kindness would be at Isobela's back for the duration of the night. Rosalie had already promised to guide Isobela through social practices that might escape her, as well as making sure that no meat touched Isobela's plate.

For Isobela, this is nearly as comforting as the scales of her snakes pressed against her skin. Nearly.

Isobela has not survived this long by trusting easily.

The Great Hall is furnished by three rather large wooden tables that gleam under candle light, each outfitted with finely-embroidered table runners in Elric grey, silver-toned plates and mundane table wears, squat goblets, and vast empty spaces where young boys and girls are hefting platters of freshly roasted herb pork stuffed with crusts and potato and the last cranberries of the season. Two of the tables run the room length wise, low benches on either side where noble men and women quite literally rub elbows as they jostle for seats further up the table. The final table is situated snugly between the upper edge of the longer lengths of wood, the width perpendicular to the first two tables and seated on the outward facing side with crafted-wooden chairs, the largest of which is clearly fit for the King, draped in grey fur and upholstered with violet velvet. It is at this table that Isobela spies the Princes, one enthusiastically chatting with a girl who shares the Elric family features - dark, curling hair and those uniquely grey, monochromatic Elric eyes - while the other Prince sits solemn and solitaire, running the tip of his finger around the edge of his goblet.

The King has yet to arrive, but it seems as if the majority of the hall is already in his presence, clearly on their best behavior as they speak in hushed whispers - as if the King can hear through stone walls and wooden doorways, as if he is ready and willing to pass judgment on any behavior he deems unfit, being the noble and fair ruler that he is rumored to be.

Isobela knows so little about mundanes. She supposes it's entirely possible that the King _can_ hear and see through the walls of the castle, though in her experience, not even Jetta's magical range is so acute.

She walks whisper-quiet along the side wall of the grand hall, hesitating near the first open seat on a nearby bench - and before she can even press a toe in that direction, Rosalie's voice is sweeping past her ears, urging her onward. "You are a special guest of the King himself, my Lady, and you must break bread with him and his family. To not do so would be a grave insult to His Highness."

Nodding her understanding with a single dip of her head, Isobela walks on, shoulders riding high with the tension she has felt since first laying eyes upon the Elric keep at Nord. If she were imprudent, she might curse the Crone for guiding her down this path where she is apt to fumble and fail. For all of her faults, however, Isobela had never once been imprudent. If the Crone thought her destiny was to be here, withstanding the stares and blatant whispering and the occasional guffaw, then here is where Isobela would remain on her honor as the Last Heir of the Clan of Solvej.

Her honor did not make these moments any less difficult.

" _Speaker, your heart will not remain in your chest for the endurance if you allow it to race so swiftly_ ," Toree warns, small triangular head nudging the underside of Isobela's ear, a flick of a forked tongue against her pierced lobe, jangling the jade nugget of her ear ring.

She makes a concerted effort, but her heart only beats harder as she comes within striking distance of the head table, hammering loud enough that she fears her heartbeat may be heard throughout the entire castle as Prince Edvard's eyes lift to meet hers. A moment. And then a bare shadow of a smile, a subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth, revealed only because of the smoothness of his sharp jaw. He is exceptionally arresting in this dim light, the shadows playing along the high bones of his cheeks and brow, highlighting the gloss of his black curls with red and gold.

Isobela's face heats. _To have such a thought - about a Prince!_

She dips into a curtsey when he stands, motioning one of the servant boys to pull out the last chair at the edge of the table. "Please," he says, sweeping his hand toward the seat.

Obediently, she drops onto the cushion, hastily arranging her skirts so that her hands might have something to do; through the fabric, Ingar nuzzles against her downward facing palm, and Isobela settles. Rosalie fades into the background, just as she explained she would, and Isobela is left to face the Great Hall, or rather avoid the direct inquisitive gaze of the courtiers. They are terribly bold. She isn't sure if this is a habit of mundanes or if the general court is as provocative by rote. Either way, she is increasingly discomfited by the attention. It has not escaped her notice that she has not been announced to the courtiers, which can only mean that the attention will be worse - perhaps sinister - once it is revealed that she is not a mere mundane with special privilege to dine with House Elric, but an _augur_ with special privilege to dine with the same royalty that had banished her people to a single village in the southern-most reach.

She isn't sure what flutters more wildly - her tense stomach or the reedy wisp of her magic beginning to bubble beneath her skin.

 **oOo**

If Isobela had not been so nervous, she might have realized that her magic - that her snakes - had sensed something amiss far before it had become obvious to her. If she had not been so nervous, she might have been paying attention to the bell dinging loudly in the back of her mind.

If she had not been so nervous, she might have put more stock in the signs she was too preoccupied to noticed.

It all might have gone differently.

 **oOo**

 _And so the World Serpent slumbered, biding his time until the Calling._

 **oOo**

Scant moments before servants finish loading tables with the offerings of the Welcome Feast, the good King sweeps into the Great Hall, grey pelted winter cloak dusting across his feet, generously padded around the neck and held together by a broach in the shape of a wyvern with onyx-encrusted eyes and splendid diamonds.

The banner of House Elric - a fabled beast that even augurs did not truly believe in, but a beast that nonetheless struck fear into the hearts of any that would challenge the ruling House. It was a myth, even among augurs, even to orphans like Isobela who had only heard such a story in passing, that the House of Elric had once killed all the wyverns in their ancestral home on the continent before eventually following the migration of the two-legged dragons to the Altar Mountains. Isobela had never been certain how much truth was in that fable. As she understood it, House Elric had only been rulers in this land for neigh four generations and as Seers were commonly known to live at least that long, and as no Seer had ever revealed that wyverns actually existed, it was not very likely that the banner of the King held any mention of truth.

Isobela could speak to snakes, magical and non-magical alike, but she could not believe that _wyverns_ were real.

It was still very fitting that the House of Elric had selected that beast to represent them to other kingdoms, for they indeed were fierce men, perhaps nearly as fierce as the wyvern on their cloaks. The King, certainly, commands the immediate attention of the room, each of his steps spreading the hush of silent courtiers as he reaches the head table. All had stood once Perseus Elric had entered the room, Isobela included; and all remain standing as the good King rounds the table, standing beside his chair with his bearded chin lifted in imperious authority.

"Tonight, we dine to celebrate the safe return of the First and Second Heirs to the House of Elric, the Princes Edvard and Emett. Their mission on my behalf to investigate peculiar rumors has amounted in success and an unforeseen discovery." The King pauses, inclining his head in Isobela's direction, much to her distress. "It is well known that my alliance with the augurs was the key to the safe securing of the throne and the kingdom, but that alliance had resulted in the unfortunate massacre of a great augur Clan. Until now, it had been thought that the whole of the Clan had been reduced to naught but ashes.

"Your Princes have proven this to be false, as they have safely escorted the Last Heir of the Clan of Solvej, the Lady Isobela. It is my hope that this feast to welcome the return of my sons will also extend to welcome the resurgence of a noble Clan through the acceptance of Lady Isobela into our court." Pausing, the King awaits the slow-building applause that rings like thunder through the cavernous Great Hall, before he smiles widely in approval, raising his hands for silence even as his courtiers begin to whisper rapidly to each other. Once attention has been returned to the King, he seats himself in that over-large chair, his voice clear and orotund. "May the festivities begin!"

It is only at Rosalie's subtle prompting that Isobela remembers she must sit, as well; she does so woodenly, eyes trained on the food spooned onto her plate. None of it is meat, but she cannot bring herself to eat it, let alone move a single muscle in her tired body.

"I promise, my Lady, that you are safe here," Sir Edvard says at her side, voice low, lips hidden behind the lifted goblet of a fragrant mulled wine that had just been filled by one of the serving boys. He has not taken a sip yet -

Isobela's nose twitches. The wine smells awfully familiar. She has not been exposed to much besides water and ale, but Sir Emett had taken great pains to introduce her to pear-sweetened wine in the last village they had passed through, and while the fermented wine had reeked with the stinging punch of alcohol - the scent had not been like this.

" _Belladonna,"_ Toree hisses at the same moment Isobela also makes the connection, her training as a healer easily aiding her ability to identify _poison_ in the cup of the Prince.

Isobela does not think.

She reaches forward, pulling on her magic as Torre's venom-coated fangs pierce through the thin skin over her jugular vein - her hand flies, fingers lit in silver and gold, and she pushes energy outward as fast as she can because Sir Edvard is tilting that goblet, now, and he _can't_ -

The goblet is ripped from the Prince's hand, clanging loudly against the floor of the Great Hall even as Isobela stands, chair scraping backward as she extends both hands. Three flicks of her fingers and the remaining goblets at the table - the Princess', Sir Emett, and King Elric's - crash onto the floor, red wine spilling not unlike blood across stone and wood.

" _Ingar_ ," she says.

The albino cobra slips down her leg, darting into the hall with swift aggression to the tune of feminine screams of alarm -

Isobela had been quick. Only a few heartbeats had passed.

But her speed is to her detriment, for the King stands as well, facing her with anger writ plain on his face. "What is the meaning of this?"

At his elbows, his children have also turned in demand of explanation - and for that matter, so too has the entire hall, each staring at her with fear, revulsion, suspicion. Isobela wants to shrink away, to disappear, but she cannot -

Because a swirl of vibrant red magic is heading right for the King's exposed back.

Toree's venom has fed her magic and she is strong - more than strong enough to twist her fingers to erect a dome-shaped shield around the royal family and send out a pulse of raw magic - not even a true spell because she does not know true spells - at the rogue augur that has somehow infiltrated the castle.

Her magic, hued in faint pink and white and gold, clashes with the deeper, more vile red magic and her magic wins, overpowering the defensive attack with enough aplomb that her second pulse of magic hits the cloaked augur, who had been hiding at the far end of the hall in the shadows, directly in the chest.

He falls, body thudding against the floor, and he struggles for a moment before falling eerily still.

Ingar's amused hiss reaches her ears. " _It is done, Speaker. This cretin's blood is sour on this-one's tongue, but the cretin will not be a problem_."

Chest rapidly rising and falling from the exertion of a sudden magical confrontation, Isobela surveys the Great Hall with wide eyes, Toree's tongue flicking over the new wound in her neck. Isobela's magic is still boiling, but she believes the threat has passed.

If only the mundane courtiers - and the royal family - would believe that _she_ is not the threat.

* * *

 **A/N: To be honest, I didn't even see this coming until the last chapter because there's literally no outline for this story. Just a single paragraph about what absolutely must happen at the end.**

 **This is the point in the story that I've caught up to all the pre-written material, so there won't be any huge clumps of chapter updating. Sorry not sorry!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~Rae**


	17. Sixteen: The Fallout

**Sixteen – The Fallout**

In Edvard's entire life, he can only recall one instance in which the castle had been infiltrated by a nefarious group of high-reaching vagabonds in search of the Elric coffers of gold and jewel.

He couldn't have been more than nine or so summers and as such, he'd been placed in charge of herding his young siblings, nearly five, between tutoring lessons, dining in their shared playroom, and their personal chambers. It was his responsibility as the elder sibling, one he took very seriously. But Edvard had also been the one - the first person in the entire castle - to realize that the knight guards skulking around the personal wing of the castle were not, in fact, knight guards. And they had known it, attacking him and his siblings the moment they realized his suspicions, grown men grappling and silencing shrieking children, desperate for their plot, for their greed.

He has never forgotten that day. He suspects he never will.

Edvard had been armed with no more than the pen knife his father had gifted him on the winter holiday previous. The first time he ever drew blood on a man was also the last time _anyone_ had dared to lay a hand on Ealice in his presence. He will never forget the warm spurt of blood splashing over his skin, nor the resistance of a blade in flesh, nor the grunt of pain man makes when he is mortally wounded. Nor will he be swift to forget the way the other men had stopped as their accomplice fell to the ground, sightless, lifeless, quickly bloodless - the way they stared at _Edvard_ -

Dead men are ever-so still.

The first dead man Edvard ever sees is also the first man that Edvard ever kills. He was nine - it still keeps him up at night, different somehow than the kills Edvard has made of highwaymen as a trained knight. Perhaps because he had been defending a life.

It is no less haunting for the honor of the act.

 **oOo**

Staring at the too-still augur laid across the floor of the Great Hall, Edvard thinks that Isobela will be similarly haunted.

She had been so swift - fast in a way that all of Edvard's years of training could never amount to, though he is wildly aware that she is gentle-handed, a healer by trade as she claims and has proven herself to be. He would wonder at that dichotomy, but he hasn't the time.

There is a dead augur in the castle of the ruling mundane King.

 **oOo**

Isobela is shaking, like a quake is caught in her limbs even as her hands still glow, a rivet of thin blood dripping down the neckline of her dress, staining that fine silver-blonde hair. Toree, the smallest serpent, licks at the wound, eyes flashing golden yellow, slit and _other_ in the light of candelabras. The other snake, the albino one, slithers over the fallen augur, hood flared, body swaying. Both snakes hiss.

Edvard does not doubt that they hiss to their mistress - to Isobela. He wonders at what they tell her, if it is good, if it is comforting, if she will listen.

She lowers her hands, orchid eyes drawn wide, pupils blown into thick, dark lines, reminding him yet again that she is not human, not the way he is. As if he could ever dare to forget.

He thinks her painfully beautiful in this moment - perhaps all the more painful for he cannot miss the way fear is nakedly writ in her expression and he does not want to find fear - _her fear_ \- attractive the way he has heard some men do in those weaker than themselves. The posture she had adopted is all but gone. In front of him and the entire court is the girl who ran across that snow-covered valley, bare-foot and pale and caught between abject terror and bravery. The dress she wears almost looks confining, now. Not because she doesn't belong in such finery, for he believes that she does, but because it is not the type of clothing a warrior wears. It is not the type of clothing the augur assassin is wearing, that much is certain.

Edvard would like to inspect this man laying dead in the middle of the Great Hall immediately, but he daren't leave Isobela to fend for herself. Courtiers are rabid, like starving mongrels oftentimes, and though he believes his father to be fair - well. Edvard had certainly jumped to erroneous conclusions a time or two before, hadn't he? Especially when it came to the Last Heir of Solvej.

"What is the _meaning_ of your actions?" demands Perseus Elric, hands gesturing broadly between the newly-dented goblets and the recently deceased man on the floor.

"Th-the wine, Sire," Isobela all but whispers, hunching her shoulders up toward her ears, as if intent on protecting her neck.

Edvard's stomach twists - that posture appears all-too comfortable on her willowy frame, clearly the type of movement her body has made countless times before. He doesn't like it. Edvard steps forward, moving past his father's elbow by a hair and when he speaks, he makes sure his voice is low, soothing. "What of the wine, Lady?"

Isobela's eyes dart to him - twice retreating to check the perimeter of curious onlookers, of vaguely threatening knight guards edging through the crowd of courtiers, of the King's steel-eyed glare - before she settles again on him, unblinking. "Belladonna," she breathes, her voice almost overtaken by the hiss of comfort as Toree settles firmly around her neck. "Poison in the wine a-and you a-almost…and th-the King's back was t-turned….I did not…"

 _Poisoned wine precipitating a magical assault by an assassin_ \- _thwarted by a single girl and two snakes without a single thought to her own safety_.

Edvard is emboldened by her truth and steps around his father, giving Isobela his back as he stands before her, ready to block her from the still-approaching knight guard and the inquisitive glint in the King's gaze. He is almost certain she breathes a soft sigh of relief once his broader frame has blocked her from general view.

The Great Hall is tense for a protracted moment and in the silence, Emmet' ever-reliable ambivalence to serious moments breaks through as he, too, steps around the King, hovering between father and brother as he nods vigorously. "By the Gods, I do bear witness to the truth of the Lady's word. Though I can't confirm that the wine was indeed poisoned myself, I do believe we all saw in her actions nothing of aggression or ill-intent."

"Indeed," agrees Ealice, delicately hooking her arm around the King's elbow, looking down her nose at the still-watching courtiers. "The Lady Isobela has saved us on this night. Father, I beseech your to call of the guard. They can be terribly intimidating. And _slow_ , evidently."

While Emmet snorts at his twin's final remark - delivered in that same bored tone she reserved for her most cutting words - Edvard is forced to bite his tongue to retain his composure. He is to be the future King. He cannot simply _laugh_ , though Ealice's criticism _is_ true. It is not the right time, nor place. The courtiers are still watching. There is still a dead man to be dealt with. And a frightened girl quivering behind him, a girl who he is not sure he can protect - though he wants to, desperately, but the moment had been so quick and they must all resolve this issue, find the root of the assassination attempt, find the _cause_ , before coming to any solid conclusions.

It is shameful, but Edvard finds himself struggling to care about his duty to his House, to the crown - and he is not prepared to acknowledge why.

The King slices his free arm through the air, silently dismissing the guard back to their posts; he turns his wrist, beckoning his personal manservant, then directing his voice outward. "We shall continue this conversation privately. Please, Lords and Ladies, be returned to your chambers until this investigation has been closed," he orders, then drops his voice low as his manservant leans forward. "Send word to Sir Carlisle and our physician. Have them collect the evidence here and report to my personal chambers at once. I would see the face that tried to end my life tonight."

All the while, the King does not remove his eyes from the girl who is hidden at Edvard's back.

Some emotion claws at Edvard's chest.

He does not know what any of this means.

 **oOo**

There had been an investigation when Edvard had killed that vagabond. It had been swift, a certain meter of justice delivered to the contemporaries of the bandit who all shared similar - and public - fates in the village square at Nord.

Edvard had watched men be hung, bulging eyes and purpling faces and the stench of piss and released bowels that had to be scrubbed from the wooden stage. His father told him it was his duty to observe justice - both to ensure that justice is delivered and to feel the true weight that justice carried. Hands anchored on Edvard's shoulders, the King had intoned his philosophies on life and death and justice and duty; had shared what the burden of leadership meant in terms of sacrifice, of choices that must be made; had opened Edvard's eyes to the reality of his future as a King, should he live long enough to take the crown.

And Edvard has never believed that he killed a single man that day. As soon as his penknife sunk into bone and flesh and blood, he'd sentenced another half-dozen men to the judgment of God. He is as responsible for their deaths as they had been responsible for the choices they made in life, good and bad. Each time he takes a life - and he has had to, for killing is the way of man and the way of the knighthood - he is reminded of the blood that stains his hands, of the ghosts that shadow his soul as surely as clouds cover the midsummer sun.

Edvard has never wished that burden upon anyone - and he prays to a God that he does not always believe in that Emmet will never have to carry this weight.

Now, Isobela does.

For saving his life and the life of his family, she is now privy to the same darkness that haunts Edvard's sleep.

He finds it unaccountably _wrong_ for such purity to be so tarnished.

 **oOo**

The knight guard are solemn and silent as they tread through the castle, slipping into the personal wing just ahead of the King, checking each chamber systematically for any intruders that might have slipped past their notice. After all, at least one intruder _had_ gotten into the castle right under the knight guard's nose. If Edvard knows anything at all about Carlisle, it is that the next weeks of training for the knights was going to be particularly harsh - and he knows that Carlisle will punish himself as well for this lapse in the security of the castle.

The King, on the other hand, remains grim. A deep frown is pulling his mouth beneath the beard, hands clasped together beneath his cloak as he paces the length of his personal chambers, occasionally tossing a glance to where Isobela stands beside the hearth.

Edvard is standing near her, close enough that he can hear the rustle of her dress as her body shakes, close enough that he can hear her whisper-quiet serpent speech. He tenses each time his father looks in their direction, the weight of his sword on his hip growing more and more heavy.

For their part, Ealice and Emmet have begun to bicker softly to each other, voices far too low for Edvard to catch the gist of what they are saying - but his siblings, while frustrating, are not the mysterious type. They are talking about what happened in the Great Hall. Ealice has pulled out a slender leather-bound book from the pockets of her skirts, flipping through the thick pages with interest and showing Emmet multiple passages.

They are not looking at religious text, that much Edvard is certain.

The tension in the room is thick by the time Carlisle and the court physician enter the room, followed by two knights carrying a canvas cot between them that carries the weight of the dead augur. The King dismisses the knight guard and his manservant, waiting until the door is closed before striding to the cot and pulling the rough woolen hood from the slack face of his would-be assailant. Edvard follows suit, peering at the face, taking in the complexion that is a shade darker than what is common in these northern lands, at the hooked nose that he _knows_ comes from the southern seas.

"Quatharn," he mutters, feeling his lip curl upward into a sneer.

His father nods, then looks right at Isobela, eyes narrowed. "Do you know this man?"

Edvard frowns. "She does not need to see this."

"She has already seen it," the King retorts. "Indeed, she caused it. He is dead because of her slithering beasts."

"In _our_ defense, I would remind you-"

"You will remind me of nothing, as I am your _King_ -"

"And wise Kings take counsel-"

A loud hiss cuts through the chamber - eight pair of Elric grey eyes, plus those of Carlisle and the physician, dart to the hearth. Ingar is dancing on the mantle, swaying two and fro, while Isobela wrings her hands together, brow knit tightly. She bites her lip hard enough to turn the plush skin white, then releases the flesh with a shaky exhalation. "I-I did not…he is not dead…"

Edvard blinks.

"Nonsense," says the physician. "I examined him myself, Lady, and his heart beats no longer. Venom, was it not?"

Isobela tucks silvery hair behind her pointed ears before reaching for Ingar, cradling him protectively against her chest. She is alone in this chamber, just a girl and her two snakes; her maid, Rosalie, had not been permitted into the King's chamber and is waiting outside with the rest and though Edvard would consider himself to be familiar with Isobela, he thinks that she does not see him in the same light. Certainly not when he is surrounded by people just like him.

"It's n-not…Ingar o-only…"

The King heaves a sigh. "Speak clearly, girl. I am listening."

"Ingar is magical," she confesses, pulling the albino snake closer to her breast. "His venom is poisonous, yes, but only if he chooses it to be…and he did not chose poison on this night."

The physician blusters. "My King, I assure you, this man is dead."

"The girl says he is not," Carlisle cuts in, nodding at Isobela with a glint of pride in his eyes. Carlisle and his wife are childless; Edvard is not surprised in the least that Carlisle has formed some emotional attachment to the orphan he just spent guiding across the kingdom for several moons. "She has proven to be honest, Sire, and indeed she is a healer. I do not think she would take a life bluntly or needlessly."

The King has always respected Carlisle's opinion. They were veterans of a civil war; Carlisle had saved the King's life perhaps more times than even Edvard is aware. And, though his father would be loathe to admit it, he found the court physician to be tiresome ever since he'd passed into his fortieth year and the physician had taken it upon himself to hound the King with herbs and cures for illnesses that the King did not yet have.

"Then you do not know this man who you did not kill?"

"He is unfamiliar to me, my Lord," says Isobela. "If he had ever been in Sassa, I would know his name and his face, but I do not. He is…not from these lands or these Clans."

"Quatharn," Edvard says again, emboldened - and lightened by this notion that Isobela did not have blood on her hands or shadows on her heart. "He has the look of it, at least."

"Ugly face like that," Emmet agrees.

Ealice remains silent, watching with a thoughtful expression. Biding her time or her words, Edvard does not know, but observing the proceedings carefully nonetheless.

The King sighs. "Unfortunately, I had been expecting this. I did not think it would come so soon…" he trails off, eyes listing to the side - to the low table piled in missives that Edvard had so easily dismissed earlier.

His gut clenches.

He didn't know that there were tensions between Nordalta and Quatharn - at least, no _new_ tensions that would inspire the Quallarn King into such maddening deeds.

"My King?" Carlisle asks cautiously, a gentle probe for information that the King denies with a firm shake of his head.

"We cannot move further until this is resolved," says the King, waving a hand to the augur's prone body with a sharp glance to the physician. "The Lady Isobela says that he is not dead. If you would be so kind as to rouse our guest from his peaceful slumber?"

The physician shakes his head. "The girl _lies_ , Sire, for this man is surely as dead as the ones that rot in the ground. I examined him myself," he repeats. "Thoroughly."

"He is _not_ dead," Isobela argues, quiet and soft, her eyes cast down to the floor. But it is still a contradiction and one that she seems very certain of.

"And what proof have you, girl? He does not breathe!"

"I-I…" Isobela seems to steel herself, taking a careful step forward. There is none of the audacious confidence his sister seems to prefer in the way that Isobela's countenance bears itself, but there is plenty of otherworldliness seeping over her movements, her expression. The same expression she'd had during that confrontation in the forest, but toned down; less fierce, but no less beautiful. And it strikes Edvard that he has been thinking of Isobela as fragile bird, feather-light and too delicate to touch, but if Isobela is a bird, then she is a bird used for hunting. A hawk, a falcon. Dangerous in her own right. It chills him just as much as it quickens his heart, hearing words made of steel slip past the bitten-redness of her bottom lip. "I have magic."

And then, with nary more than a subtle glow to the vivid orchid of her eyes and the wave of a hand pulsing with familiar white magic, Isobela proves to the physician how very wrong he had been.

The augur assassin sits straight up on the cot, gasping for air - and then choking on it when Carlisle's swift reflexes have a strong hand closing around the augur's throat. The old physician makes a squawking noise, blustering spinelessly to the King about how he'd been _mistaken_ , obviously, but how was he to know when magic was afoot in the castle? Emmet rolls his eyes, remarking to Ealice about the level of intellect the physician seems to possess in a voice that is not modulated for discretion in the slightest, and the King shoots the prince an icy glare -

The augur's hands begin to emit that vicious red light, but Isobela is there and her magic is overwhelming his, pushing it down, back into his body, binding his skin in a tawny golden glow around the hands, the mouth, the legs.

"He will not move," she says to the room, tilting her head to the side not unlike Toree, who flicks her tongue at the augur assassin. There is stillness. The augur looks up at Isobela, where she leans over his cot ever-so quiet, and his eyes widen in blind fear - he sees something in the girl that frightens him. Isobela declares, "He will not strike."

Even as she does so, Edvard wonders what the augur has seen that has shaken him into trembling silence. Isobela is small, a wisp of a girl with more hair than body weight and round, innocent eyes. Edvard doesn't find a thing threatening about her, except a healthy amount of wariness that she should wield both offensive and defensive magic so easily. He does not see what this augur man sees.

Not for the first time, he wonders what it is that makes Isobela so touched - accused of a curse, gifted beyond imagination in two polar opposites of magic, which is clearly not normal among augurs, and trailed by docile, protective serpents. An orphan should not be so intriguing, should not capture the minds of so many, should not be as innocuous.

And yet.

 **oOo**

After ensuring that the augur would not escape the magical binds she placed him in, Isobela is sent away along with Ealice, Emmet, the physician, and Carlisle, who is tasked with placing the augur into the dungeons until the King decides his fate.

When it is only the King and the First Heir of the House of Elric, his father removes his crown and sighs deeply. "I have never seen such magic and I believe I have seen my fairer share than most mundane men."

Edvard, sitting near the hearth in an untidy sprawl, eyes on the flames, tells him about that confrontation in the woods and all the other easy feats of magic he has witness in Isobela.

"I have never even _heard_ of such magic," his father declares tiredly.

"She is unique."

"Yes."

The silence is thin, easily broken as Edvard reaches for discarded missives, flipping through them with widening eyes and greater speed - until he reaches the one at the end, the most outwardly threatening that does allude to the events of the night should the King not change his mind about certain arrangements between the kingdoms of Nordalta and Quatharn.

"Father."

"I know."

Edvard is lost for words, his mind trailing back and again to the same burning question. "But what does he _want_?"

Because threats of war are not to be taken idly, especially when the threats are explicit and the cause for peace only implied. The missives are altogether too vague - they simply repeat the same line, each letter pressed deep into parchment with a sharpened quill, more bold than the words around it as if the Quatharn King had taken special care in crafting each line.

The Progeny.

 _I want the Progeny from your lands._

 _The Progeny is not rightfully yours._

 _This is the Call - the Progeny shall be mine._

"What does he want?" asks the King, staring out of the stone-crafted window between wooden slats. The moon is full, shining into the room between the break of clouds, the light as silver and bright as the magic that had been seen only hours before, but cold and distant. "If not for your return, I would have never known what that mad King wants, what his threats had all been inspired by. It would have remained a mystery."

"But now…you know."

"I do." The King turns back to Edvard, then inclines his chin to the door and speaks words that send a wave of fiery anger flooding through Edvard's veins. "He wants that girl."

 _Isobela_.

* * *

 **A/N: Aha! Bet you didn't see that one coming, did you? Magical snakes, magical venom, and also Isobela isn't a killer – just like she said, she's a healer.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~Rae**


	18. Seventeen: The Princess

**Seventeen – The Princess**

Serpico joins Isobela as she bathes the morrow after the feast, using his paddled tail to swim through the hot recesses of the copper basin, twisting around Isobela's ankles with ease. He is silent, as are the other snakes basking near the hearth, as Isobela soaks her skin in water infused with rose and lavender oils.

"I do not see why I must bathe again," she says, pressing her chin to the bony curve of her knee, arms holding her legs to her chest steadfastly. If her tone is petulant, then it cannot be helped. She is tired, having been woken before the sun had properly risen, and told that she had appointments this morning that had been arranged by the Elric Princess personally. Isobela does not know that she likes this necessity to acquiesce to the bidding of other people; not even the Crone had expected Isobela at a certain time when she was training to become a healer.

Of course, the Crone had the advantage of already knowing when Isobela would arrive at the house of Seers - likely before Isobela did - and the Princess does not share this advantage. She, like the rest of the of the House of Elric, is mundane. Isobela supposes that means that she must bend to the will of the Princess to make up for the disadvantage that all mundanes must have. It must be terrible to _not know_.

Rosalie is pulling a wooden comb carefully through Isobela's hair, but answers with amusement, "I believe this is something you must become accustomed to. We mundane women do love bathing. The court expects us to be presentable at all times and we must meet this expectation. You shall simply have to endure."

"The water does feel nice."

"Your snake seems to like it," Rosalie agrees gently.

Isobela smiles. "Serpico is a water serpent. He was born in the water but left his home to follow me," she says, watching Serpico's coils ripple through the barely-clouded water. "He was very young and I was in need of a hunter."

Rosalie continues to comb through Isobela's hair, the tug of her scalp soothing enough that she almost doesn't hear when Rosalie speaks, so lost is she in her own thoughts. "That sounds like quiet the story."

"It is," Isobela whispers. She reaches down, running the tip of her finger over the dip on Serpico's scalp, over the reminder of what Isobela has survived.

 **oOo**

Isobela is in her fourteenth spring when it comes to her attention that the herds in the village have fallen ill - pigs, cows, and chickens all alive in the night but dead in the morning. The villagers suspect magic and rightfully so; it is surely something dark, an omen of ill-tidings, that a spring should begin with such auspicious tragedy.

Her estimation of foul play is greatly different from what the village believes. While Isobela is certain the cause is magical, she thinks the magic is ambient, not specific to any one source but rather a sign from their Gods that darkness was coming. The villagers, however, point their fingers toward Isobela, blaming her unnatural presence for the reason their livestock is dwindling so rapidly.

Isobela does not eat meat. She has never been to the stables that line the back of the longhouses in the village, but it does not matter. She is to blame. And so she must fix it.

Not even the Crone can stop the village men from pulling her out of her hovel in the middle of the night, dragging her into the village square, and stinging her up by her wrists for days until she agrees - tearfully, scared out of her wrists - that she will undo the spell she cast. She had been so thirsty, so mindlessly hungry, so exhausted that she would have said anything to stop the stones breaking her skin, to ease the ache of over-stretched joints in her shoulders, elbows, and wrist. She would have confessed to any crime if only she were not drenched in soiled water each time her eyes closed from sheer fatigue.

She would have said anything - and so she did. Isobela begged for her life when her desperation caused her to agree to undo a spell that did not exist.

The hollow gaze of the Seers - always watching, but forbidden from interfering - had confirmed what Isobela already knew as the House of Borr took an axe to the rope holding her aloft. There was no spell. There was no solution. This was just another of many excuses to attempt to cull the Cursed Child of Sassa - an attempt that had, once again, failed. Isobela seemed to be able to survive anything, untrained as her magic was. She did not know what that meant, other than the fact that it cursed her to this incessant cruelty that she could only choke on.

Isobela was given a day to provide enough meat to feed the village in a form of restitution before she would nullify her alleged spell casting. A single day to feed hundreds of mouths, all by herself and all while recovering from endless days strung up by her hands. Covered in welts, tacky blood, and an unmentionable spell, Isobela had stumbled into the forest - frantic and fumbling, tripping on her own feet until she collapsed near the foreshore of the winding river. The rushing water had suffocated the ugly sound of her sobs, the wracking of her lungs as she coughed on air.

What could she do? Her own hunger distracted her from any solution and she could only cry harder as she realized that death might truly become her if she could not please the villagers. She had a single day - she could not take the trader's route in the forest and she was not strong enough to hunt for venison or hare.

"It is impossible," she cries, folded over one of the boulders of the river, draped boneless, leg sprawling far enough that her foot dips into the coolness of the stream. She would be killed and then who would her snakes have? Nothing and no one - they would be left to fend for themselves. Hope drains from every inch of Isobela's being.

Then, something bumps her foot.

Isobela sits up, recoiling from the mysterious sensation. She peers into the clear water of the river, mouth dropping open as she spies the familiar twisting shape of a snake. _A snake in the water_. Panic seizes her lungs - she knows that snakes cannot swim, so surely this one is in danger. In spite of the soreness of her beaten body, she lunges forward, plunging her hands into the water and gently grasping at the wriggling scales of the water-sodden snake. A snake that emerges from the water hissing and spitting, gorgeous iridescent grey scales speaking to the magic coursing through it's body.

 _"Are you hurt?"_ she gasps, certain that the snake's urgent movements are from the trauma of nearly drowning.

" _No, cretin, this-one is not hurt! This-one was hunting!_ " the snake hisses, then suddenly stops, tilting his head to blink with slit eyes. " _A speaker…Speaker, are you_ the _speaker?"_

" _I am the only speaker that I know of_ ," she answers. Any other speakers had died in the fire that decimated her Clan, but she thinks the snake might know that.

" _Speaker may call this-one Serpico. Speaker, this-one did not mean to enter claimed territory, but the river-steam is swift and this-one was caught in a current some time ago…"_

 _"You have no clutch?"_ Isobela asks, settling back on her heels. The snake, Serpico, doesn't seem to be as young as Ingar or Toree when she first found them, nor did he seem as old as Jetta. Perhaps he was near the same maturity level as herself? It was difficult to tell with snakes, magical ones especially. And in her hands was a magical _water_ snake, no less. She'd had no idea such a serpent could exist, but it did not surprise her now that she was not concerned for the snake's well-being.

 _"No, Speaker."_

She frowns, pulling Serpico closer to the warmth of her thin body. " _I have a clutch,"_ she says, her tone morose. " _And I would invite you into my territory, but I fear that we may not be safe. I am…not favored in the village and the task before me is impossible to accomplish. I will release you back into the river and you may be safe if you continue into the south."_

Serpico does not retreat as she expected; rather, he slithers up the length of her forearm, nuzzling against the broken skin just above her elbow with a flickering tongue. _"This-one will not abandon a speaker. How may this-one assist?"_

Isobela cannot scarcely believe her luck - but she knows better than to question it. The Gods did work in mysterious ways. Could it be that a snake capable of hunting prey that was not touched by the ill-omen had been dropped into her lap? She believed so. And with very little hesitation, she tells Serpico that she must catch enough fish to feed the entire village.

Serpico is up to the challenge. " _This-one is the best chaser in the river._ "

 **oOo**

It is because of Serpico's loyalty and bravery and tenacity that Isobela is still alive. She knows this without a single doubt.

 **oOo**

The tailor from the village is the first to arrive in Isobela's chambers, bringing with him several apprentices and trunks full of bolts of luxurious fabrics in more colors and textures that Isobela had ever thought possible. Isobela is instructed to stand in the middle of her room in a thin linen chemise, which is decidedly uncomfortable, but not nearly as uncomfortable as the way the tailor continually defers to her opinion. The tailor is a man in his middle age with long fingers and a neatly trimmed moustache peppered with grey as evenly as the rest of his thick hair. He is intent on his work, and thus intent on Isobela's thoughts, economical in his entire bearing.

Isobela finds very quickly that she does not have an opinion about such matters. In the trading village at the beginning of this journey it had been Emett who'd made the decisions about what she would by from that clothing stall. Now, it is her decision and she finds it all very overwhelming. The tailor drapes fabric across her clavicle, trades it with another fabric, compares the two, and then asks one of the apprentices to bring the candle closer so that Isobela can have better light to decide.

Her mouth opens and closes, soundless. The colors are very similar shades of deep red, one perhaps a touch more orange, but still close enough that Isobela simply doesn't understand the difference. She turns wide eyes to Rosalie, who gracefully takes over the situation. "Perchance, sir, do you have fabrics in a shade that might compliment my Lady's eyes? They are ever such a unique color."

"Indeed they are!" agrees the tailor, eagerly pulling the fabrics away from Isobela and turning to search in the trunks along with his apprentices.

Noticing that the tailor is sufficiently distracted, Isobela releases the tension in her shoulders. "Thank you," she says reverently to Rosalie. "I haven't a clue as to how this is done. I must confess my ignorance."

"Then I should like to help my lady. Please, though, you certainly must have some preference," Rosalie urges quietly, reaching up to smooth a stray silver-blonde hair back into the intricate braid she had twisted into Isobela's hair. Her touch is soft and maternal, reminding her of Rosemary even though the two women could not be more difference in age and appearance. Isobela is still comforted.

"Soft," she whispers haltingly. "I would like…soft."

"Soft you shall have, my Lady," Rosalie says gently. She turns and communicates with the tailor, who pauses in his search before nodding decisively.

The process of selecting fabrics is much easier after that. Isobela does not know what Rosalie said to the tailor, but he is less frenetic in his work, keeping his tone low and limiting his fabric selections to only the softest fabrics in his collection. Isobela ends up picking several bolts of simple, rich colors, choosing ribbons and laces and leathers that were equally feather-light and supple. The tailor asks which of her current gowns she likes the most and Isobela indicates the high-necked, long-sleeved dress that she had worn during stays in villages along the way to Nordalta. The tailor nods, takes notes on her measurements, and promises to send her dresses up to the castle as swiftly as possible.

"My Lady has first priority," he says.

Rosalie passes over a small pouch of clinking coins, standing serenely in front of Isobela's scantily-clad form. "We thank you, sir, for your services. The remaining payment will be delivered upon receipt of the final gown."

"Godspeed," Isobela murmurs to the tailor.

He smiles. She is certain that it is the most honest smile she has received in a long while.

 **oOo**

Isobela learns that the tailor was not an appointment made by the Princess; rather, the tailor was a response to an inquiry Rosalie set out.

The appointment made by Princess Ealice is distinctly different.

For one, the matchmaker is a woman. For another, the matchmaker cares very little for Isobela's discomfort that is telegraphed in every moment she is near the rotund, brisk woman. Isobela stands with wire-tight tension stiffening her spine as she daren't breathe during the impromptu inspection. The Princess and the matchmaker had arrived to her chambers just as Rosalie was beginning the arduous process of lacing the back of Isobela's dress - a process that was halted by order of the matchmaker with the approval of the Princess.

Rosalie had cast an apologetic smile to Isobela as she stripped the dress from her back, leaving Isobela to stand once again in the linen chemise. She felt that she might as well have been naked for all the coverage the chemise offered. The matchmaker certainly had no qualms in examining every inch of Isobela's body, even going so far as to left the hem above Isobela's knee, only to hum disapprovingly and drop the linen with a dissatisfied huff.

"Much too thin," declares the matchmaker, speaking to the room as if Isobela were not even present, circling Isobela with her lip curled and her eyes banked with contempt. Isobela shivers under her mean examination, slit orchid eyes cast downward, tendrils of silvery hair falling forward to cover the damning pointed tip of her ear. "Men desire to know that their wives will be able to bear them many healthy children and this girl has no hips for childbearing. Thin and frail and simply unhealthy. I do not know how I shall entice anyone with what she has to offer, my Lady. She has no pedigree to speak of, no dowry to offer, and now the girl is far too sickly to attract even the Lords in most desperate need of a wife. And these are only the problems I have just spotted…I am sure there are _other_ reasons that her hand would be unsuitable."

Princess Ealice lifts a single brow. "I would implore you, dearest Lady Helegarth, that your services are not nearly as unexpendable as you seem to believe. Allow this to serve as a gentle reminder that the Lady Isobela's pedigree outranks even my own."

Lady Helegarth blanches. "My Princess! I-"

"Yes, I do believe you owe the Lady Isobela, your client of the utmost priority, an apology. I say, I must agree," says the Princess, tone cool and brooking no protestations. "Please, do proceed. I shall wait."

The matchmaker stiffens, then turns on her heel, offering Isobela a stilted curtsy that can only barely be considered polite and a stilted apology. Isobela accepts with a soft murmur, reeling by the entire interaction.

She is aware that she is quite thin, but it is to be expected, especially during the winter months when access to any supplies dwindled even further. She had grown to expect and accept the weight gained during the summer to slip from her waist, skin pressed against the jut of her hip bones and ribs. It did not help that she had been traveling so recently, or that she had always had a small, light frame. Isobela had never thought of beauty - she'd had no reason to - but to hear that she appeared sickly to the mundanes…twists something right behind her breast bone.

She thinks of Prince Edvard - an inexplicable sudden thought that has no place in her mind.

Isobela doesn't even know why she would think of him at all. She _shouldn't_ think of him.

Most especially in front of his sister and a matchmaker. If heat rises on her cheeks, she hopes that the dim light of the candles diffuses the rush of color that must surely paint itself across her face.

"Excellent!" The Princess claps her hands together, then steps forward, closer to Isobela than the matchmaker so that Isobela might see the unbridled kindness shining in her familiar grey eyes. "Now, then, shall we address each issue presented, Lady Isobela?"

"Yes, my Lady," Isobela breathes, refusing the urge to fidget under a gaze as knowing as the Princess'. She looks to Rosalie, who is in turn leveling a rather hard look at the matchmaker's back.

"First, it shall be noted to any prospective offers that the Lady's Isobela will be paid by the crown to any amount that feels appropriate as determined by myself and the King," decides Princess Ealice. "Second, you shall dedicate yourself to reminding yourself and others of the quite impressive parentage of Lady Isobela, including her father's efforts in the war that has afforded us such peace and longevity that you should even have clients to service. And third, I believe you will find that with proper nutrition and an open mind, Lady Isobela's beauty will be astonishing and unrivaled by any courtier in Nordalta."

"Indeed, my Lady," replies the matchmaker, thoroughly chastised.

"Have you any other concerns?"

"No, my Lady."

Princess Ealice smiles serenely, raising her brows in expectation. Silence permeates the room, cut only by the crackle of wood in the hearth and the whisper-soft ruffle of Isobela's chemise as she trades the balance of her weight to the other foot. Then Lady Helegarth flushes puce, bowing her head deeply with an abruptness that startles even the slumbering serpents, who hiss lowly at the disturbance.

"O-of course, my Lady. I shall bid you farewell," stutters the matchmaker.

Rosalie closes the door behind the woman with a sigh, resting her forehead against the wood for a moment before turning back, adopting a posture that Isobela has grown to associate with the behavior expected of a lady's maid. It was a posture Rosalie only held when she and Isobela were not alone.

"Dreadful woman," murmurs the Princess, smoothing the rich burgundy fabric over her hips. She shakes her head, expression only a shadow of apology. "Now that this arduous business is done, shall we have a walk through the gardens, Lady Isobela? The winter roses are ever so beautiful from my windows and I should like to see them up close."

Even if Isobela had thought to refuse the Princess, there is something in her tone that makes it perfectly clear that this invitation is not voluntary. Isobela _will_ be going to see the winter roses in the garden whether she would like to or not.

The Princess waits as Isobela is helped back into her dress and as Rosalie fetches Isobela's winter cloak, pinning it closed with a silver broach right below the base of Isobela's throat where Toree has made herself at home, Ingar's fire-warmed scales a welcome warmth against the coolness of her skin.

"I should like to know you better," says the Princess as they leave Isobela's chambers.

Isobela is certain she is not imagining the sense of foreboding that rushes down her spine, skin and magic pebbling in anticipation.

 **oOo**

The gardens home in the castle of Nordalta are host to the most remarkable collection of vegetation that Isobela has ever laid eyes upon - she daren't look, at first, certain that such unique plants, the sort she'd only heard of from the Crone and Rosemary, were not meant for her eyes. The new station that she has been thrust into is certainly difficult to adopt. She feels inferior, still, like an imposter. She does not deserve to wear such finery, nor does she belong in such an elegant place.

As is true for most of Isobela's life, it appears she does not have a choice in the matter. The Princess has insisted on Isobela's presence in the gardens; Rosalie has insisted that Isobela dress and behave as a mundane lady; the King has insisted that she remain at the castle. And Prince Edvard…has not made any demands from her, save that she heal his brother, which she would have done without being asked, and that she accompany him on this journey, which was truly the Crone's demand, not his.

All her life, people have wanted something from Isobela. It's almost _comforting_ \- though disorienting - that these new mundane people, accustomed to a certain way of life, should feel they have the right to demand things of her. It is unnerving that the Prince does not.

The Princess, however, seems more than inclined to make up for her brother's lack of demands.

"Come, the winter roses are this way," says Princess Ealice, hooking her arm through Isobela's bent elbow and guiding them both to a more narrow walkway. Then, she looks over her shoulder and says dismissively to Rosalie, "You may remain here. Please see to it that we are not bothered."

"Yes, my Lady." Rosalie curtsies, but only after darting a hazarding glance to Isobela, as if assuring herself that Isobela is _fine_ with suddenly being truly alone with the Princess.

Isobela is able to dip her head once - a sign of acceptance - before the Princess whisks her around a corner of snow-laden shrubbery, made more of thorns than leaves but still dazzling in its stark beauty. The entire garden is a maze of wintery delights; from the frost-deadened branches hang an array of icicles and among them, the rare beauty of winter blooms in arresting shades of cool blues, dusty purples, faint pinks, and petals whiter than the fresh fallen snow. Isobela finds this icy garden fascinating. Never had she dreamed that flowers could bloom amid such unwelcoming circumstances.

The Princess explains that the garden is specially cultivated, a relic from her mother's reign as Queen that had been tended to by nannies until Ealice herself was old enough to care for each plant. She names each individual flower, supplying the reasons why it was planted in that area or for what purpose it is used, if at all. Isobela is so impressed by the knowledge of the Princess - knowledge that could surely only be rivaled by the Crone herself - that she does not notice she has been lead to the furthest corner of the garden, well away from any ears that might think to pry upon what is rapidly revealing itself to be a private conversation.

"There are not many who are still alive to possess this knowledge," begins the Princess conversationally, seating herself on a bench made of the same stone as the castle, but carved with such care that it was evident to serve a specific purpose. "Perhaps the architect or manservants who graduated into the knighthood, but it is rare that those who still draw breath have had the pleasure of this seat in the garden. Please, do make yourself comfortable. I am afraid the revelations in this conversation might weaken the strength in your knees. When I first made the discovery, I was quite shaken as well."

Stiffly - more wary than she has any right to be around a fellow woman who matched her in age and weight - Isobela seats herself beside the Princess, smoothing the fabric of her dress to have a task to occupy her nervous hands. Ingar shifts around her knee. In her ear, Toree's voice is doused with amusement. " _This two-legged is quite entertaining, Speaker."_

Isobela hums a low response, loud enough for Toree to be acknowledged, but in no way loud enough for the Princess to hear, even seated as close as the bench forces them to be. She still feels as thought the Princess has heard, but simply chooses her task over giving any attention to Isobela's oddities. A welcome relief, to be certain. Isobela is not sure how she is expected to behave around the Princess any more than she is sure how to behave around the Princes or the knights. While it was true that Isobela had never had any close age mates, it was also true that the majority of her peers in the village were male; and the few female augurs born in the same sun cycle as Isobela were decidedly different from the Princess, who was adorned in jewels with milk-fair skin and tumbling, glossy black curls pulled away from her face with impossibly delicate braids. Even clothed in a dress free of patches and stains, Isobela knows in her mind - the same place that stores all of her most painful memories - that she could never measure up to the standards of court and it makes her so very uneasy.

The Princess tilts her chin skyward, eyes sharp on the towering walls beyond the thorny, icy branches that hide them from view. "My mother, Gods rest her soul, was quite clever. This bench is placed in the only location in the castle that cannot be reconstructed. The cornerstone just behind us is a bearing wall for many important supports in the personal apartments here and cannot be dismantled at all. There are no windows and the stone is sealed expertly. Do you see?"

Following the Princess' line of sight, Isobela does in fact see how brilliant the garden is. Though new to the castle, Isobela understands that the garden itself is located in the center-most courtyard, surrounded by four sides of stone walls and only accessible to the royal family - and, indeed, free of the wooden windows inset to the rest of the rooms in the castle. "I do, my Lady."

The Princess waves her hand, dismissive. "None of that," she says briskly, pulling out a small leather-bound book with silver-gilded pages, well worn to the point that the title has faded from the sides and front cover. "You must call me by my given name, now that we are alone. I understand you have a similar arrangement with your handmaiden, yes? We shall agree upon those same rules…for I must confess to you that we are not as dissimilar as you might have thought."

Isobela hardly hears the Princess. Her attention is devoted solely to the book resting in delicate pale hands - a book that whispers of magic, strong enough that it brushes against the senses that make Isobela an augur. It calls to her in the same way that the ruins of her family's longhouse call to her; there is such a concentration of magic within that single book that Isobela is alarmed she did not detect it earlier. Sensing her distress, Ingar weaves down to her ankle, the flare of his hood pressing against the top of her fur-lined boot.

"Good," says Ealice. "You sense it. I was hoping that I wouldn't need to explain…"

"W-where did you…" Isobela trails off, brows furrowing. Although she had never _truly seen_ a book such as this, the signature of magic was unmistakable; there are very few objects in the word that can host magic so comfortably. Isobela knew that books such of these were in every Clan, passed down generation to generation. Her Clan's had burnt in that grisly fire. Or at least, that was what Isobela had always thought. "How have you come into possession of a spell book?"

"It was my mother's," Ealice replies simply, turning the book over in her hand, flipping open the front cover to show Isobela the faded ink swirled into a design she had only ever dreamed of seeing. "And your mother's, as it turns out."

The breath leaves Isobela's lungs in a rush. "I-I…please explain to me the meaning of this for I am unable to understand…"

A melancholy smile rests briefly upon Ealice's lips. "After giving birth to the Heir of the House of Elric, my dearest brother Edvard…I have come to understand that the birth was difficult and that my mother was blessed by her God to survive. But she was told that she would not be able to conceive again. It tortured her. It was a failure of the Queen to only supply a single child. In her diaries, my mother's bereavement was a palpable force and though Edvard was too young to remember, his nursemaids were the same women to care for Emett and myself. They never did whisper as quietly as they thought…Mother's longing for more children is archived quite well if one knows where to look…Indeed, it was known well enough in the castle that news spread to Nord and to a certain nomadic augur."

" _My_ mother," Isobela breathes.

"Yes."

"Oh, Gods above…what happened then? Do you know?"

Ealice touches the book, delicate and lingering. "Your mother made contact with mine through a simple missive. As I'm sure you know, the nomadic augurs have many secrets…and your mother knew a secret, a spell, that could grant my mother her wish for more children."

"At a price," Isobela murmurs.

"A price that the Queen was aware of, as this book indicates. An equal but opposite exchange. A life for a life…A price my mother paid gladly," Ealice sighs, wiping a crystalline tear from her Elric gray eyes. "Your mother cast the spell with the Queen's consent, each of them knowing that once the spell was complete, there would be a new life even as an old life was extinguished. I don't think either of them accounted for twins, though, and by then it was too late as my mother sent yours to Sassa to find refuge from the suspicions still remaining after the war. The spell was meant for one life…but when there were two in the womb, I think a strange thing must have happened because Emett and I…"

Realization dawns with wide eyes and parted lips. "You have magic."

"Not very much," Ealice admits. "But enough to know events before they pass, Emett and I."

"Like the Seers." Isobela feels only very slightly foolish for not realizing earlier, but it is justified. All Seers, even the Crone, do not have true magic as Isobela knows it and do not have an aura of magic that is strong enough to be tangible. Ealice and Emett have less magic than the Seers; even now that she is aware, Isobela can only detect just the faintest glimmer, a shadow in comparison to Rosemary's and less than nothing in comparison to her own untrained aura.

But it is still _magic_. And for all that the Princess and Princes of the House of Elric are siblings, tied together by shared blood, two of them are not mundane. Not truly.

"Less so, I would assume." The Princess arches a brow. "Or perhaps more than we thought because Emett and I knew that this journey the King sent Edvard on would end much differently than they assumed. That is why Emett snuck into the riding party for me because we both knew that he could keep an eye on the turning tide."

"This is…unheard of."

"As it shall remain," Ealice states boldly. "However, that is not why I have made us both suffer this frigid weather."

Isobela blinks as Ealice holds out the slender spell book.

"This is yours," she says. "Rather, it was your mother's but it belongs to you. It has been very helpful to me even though many of its secrets remain hidden."

Isobela runs her fingers over the magic-warmed leather, the crisp pages fluttering beneath the skim of her nails. A spell book - her _mother's_ spell book. "Thank you."

"You are very welcome, Isobela of the Clan of Solvej."

* * *

 **A/N: This chapter was not supposed to be this long. It really wasn't. But then, you know, things happened and this is what we've got. The, uh,** ** _mother_** **of plot twists! Ta-da! (It's a pun).**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~Rae**


	19. Eighteen: The Missive

**Eighteen – The Missive**

Edvard may not be overly involved in the happenings of court, but even he has heard whispers among the manservants and maids about all the things his sister has orchestrated over the last two weeks. He is not surprised that Ealice has taken it upon herself to guide Isobela into life in Nordalta by the means of tailors and luncheons and visits to the winter gardens and the library and meetings with that wretched matchmaker, a woman that he refused to see ever again after the woman had the audacity to petition Edvard for _herself_.

He is not surprised by any of this. He is, however, rather irked and if he takes out his vexation on the other knights or on the fruit that Fergus has taken it upon himself to deliver, then so be it. A _matchmaker!_ And to think that is has taken _this long_ for Edvard to hear about it - the gall of his sister to set up a meeting with Lady Helegarth and Isobela, as if _Isobela_ were any other new lady at court, as if the same expectancies that applied to highborn women also applied to _Isobela_.

Did not Ealice understand that Isobela was the exception to every rule?

Edvard bites into his apple with an aggressive _crunch_ , chewing with rapid gnashes of his teeth. He finds the entire idea of treating Isobela like every other vapid courtier particularly offensive. She is _augur_ ; though it's peculiar that she even be in the castle for a prolonged stay by the order of the King and a wizened old woman, it's far more peculiar to shuffle the girl around as if she's another pawn in the game that court often resembles. Edvard approves of her exposure to the library and he does not begrudge the continued sessions with Nord's best tailor - but that should be the end of it.

Isobela does not belong in these stone-dark halls. She belongs in the forest, breathing with the wind and whispering to her serpents, pale and fierce and flashing orchid eyes at any who dare contradict her desires. However, if she _must_ be at court, then should she not be touring the physician's quarters and learning the trade of the mundane doctors? She is a healer, a _fine_ healer. Extraordinary skill like that needs to be utilized.

Edvard knows his sister would laugh in his face if he mentioned this thought to anyone. And Edvard has learned to pick his battles with Ealice, which is why he has yet to actually _say_ anything to her about the activities she is coercing Isobela to partake. He cannot say anything, so the very least he can do is channel his frustrations into other avenues. Such as the apple that he has gnawed to the core, spitting sour seeds onto the grey, slush-trodden courtyard that the knights have taken to training in. He tosses the apple core into the bushes, wiping his hand on his thigh where the heavy chainmail ceases to cover his trousers.

 _It is absurd to be so irritated by this_ , he reflects to himself, crossing arms over chest as he waits for Carlisle's required break to end. His blood is pumping, flushing his face and preventing the sweat from cooling in the wintry breeze. There are no knights around him, keeping a respectful distance that even Emett is observing. His mood is tangible in the courtyard, darkening his features, guiding his sword.

Edvard knows the real source of his agitation. True, some of it might be - rightfully - directed toward his sister's antics, but he's certain that it's the King's secrecy about Jasper's mission that is really clawing at his mind. Edvard was only made aware of Jasper's business away from Nordalta that morning, a full four days after the knight and well-trusted friend had been sent away and when he pressed, his King had been awfully tight-lipped about where such a junior knight had been sent _all alone_.

Edvard is not stupid, however. Even if the King did not want to disclose Jasper's location, it was still obvious - at least to Edvard, who knew both his father and Jasper fairly well.

Jasper is traveling in secret to Quatharn as a spy for the House of Elric and the entire kingdom.

Edvard cannot condone this. He views it as a desperate act, cowardly in essence to sneak and spy and seek information in such an underhanded fashion. He does not blame Jasper, however; though Jasper had always been very clear in his predilection for working as a spymaster and was unduly suited to the task, Edvard didn't assume for a moment that it was Jasper's idea. The knight had gone on the King's order and the King's order alone. And Edvard does not like to think of his father as craven - but it certainly isn't how _Edvard_ would plan to handle the unsavory threats from the Quatharn King.

If it were Edvard, he would lead a march, a head-on assault that would display his power. He would not wait and stew and compromise the safety of his people.

 _But Edvard had never been to true war and his father had_.

He is a Prince. It is not his place to disagree with the King - it is his place to learn from the King, absorb the wisdom of this approach even if he does not agree with it. His father had emerged from a civil war unscathed. That counted for a great many things in the minds of other rulers in this region and Edvard could stand to observe how this all played out.

Perhaps, though, he would be more inclined to try his patience if it were not _Isobela_ that had become the target - theoretically, of course. The King only _thought_ that Isobela was the cause of the threatening missives but there wasn't any proof. Edvard supposes that is why Jasper had been sent - to try and see if Isobela was the subject of those letters, or if the Quatharn King was speaking of something else entirely.

The tactics on all this information seeking is enough to give Edvard a headache. It seems he has a great many things to cause the tension building in his body, the jolt of untamed energy that prompts him to walk back to the center of the courtyard and raise his training sword in the air, a silent call to action. A challenge for anyone willing to cross his line of sight. He flips his sword in his palm, a glint of dull steel in the winter sun weaving in the air parallel to the ground.

It is no shock that Carlisle takes it upon himself to meet Edvard's challenge - an act of resigned bravery that all knights had come to expect from the captain of the guard. Their blades meet in a clash hard enough to reverberate up his wrist, arm, and shoulder. Edvard tightens his grip, changing the angle of how his palm cradles the hilt beneath the crossguard to thwart Carlisle's next move. He slips backward, a smooth glide of leather on slick ground, then parries right, only to be caught by the screeching meet of Carlisle's blade against his own.

"And here, Lady Isobela, you shall see my dearest brother repeating the same mistake for the umpteenth time. He never parries left," says Ealice as she waltzes into the courtyard, lips pursed in boredom as she looks upon all the knights. "As you might imagine, it is a fatal mistake."

Edvard scowls as the knights stand from attention, swords holstered in the presence of the Lady of Nordalta, a position his sister was entitled to only because his mother was too deceased to take the mantel that all Queens must. The Princess had had the position for more years that Edvard cares to acknowledge, which was perhaps why she felt so entitled to _all_ grounds in the castle proper and why Edvard could not bring himself to make her leave. He thinks Ealice must be the loneliest of all the Elric children; at least he and Emett have the knighthood to fill their days, while all Ealice has is the sycophants of the court.

Now, though, Ealice has Isobela.

He can't be bothered to notice if his scowl deepens at the thought - and he does not spare a thought to wonder why he would have such a reaction. It is more important to confront his sister's interruption of rather important training, especially as she is aware, at least peripherally, of the situation with Quatharn.

"Sister," he says tersely, slow to push his word into the sheath on his hip. "I should think you would be aware of the perils of barging unannounced through the training yard."

Ealice rolls her eyes, a swift motion upwards that might not be caught by any one else, save himself and Emett. "Oh, yes, the dangers are quite obvious. Many pointed objects, as I am given to understand. However, the Lady Isobela was quite curious about where the brave men who acted as her guard on that moons-long journey spent most of their time."

Edvard's eyes sweep over Isobela's face, lingering on the tightness around her lips and eyes. "Is that so, my Lady?"

"I…indeed," says she, rather unconvincingly to his ears, but he does not call her out on the obvious lie, though he does find some bemusement in her clumsy agreement of his sister's tale.

Which begs the question - what was the true purpose of Ealice's presence? He knows his sister well. There is very little she does without having a reason that serves multiple purposes and though he may have some irritation toward her actions, he has always understood her to be motivated by good intentions. By his estimation, there are only two possibilities at the moment: something to do with the King that must be handled discreetly enough that a manservant was not a viable option or something to do with a missive sent by owl, which are the only sort of missives that his sister is ever inclined to intercept.

He looks more closely, taking note of the fine spray of watery mud on the hem of Ealice's cloak and of the buttery leather covering her hands that is mostly hidden behind thick fur. He's right, then. His sister had been handling an owl as _those_ gloves, of all the many gloves his sister owned, were made specifically to protect skin from the talons of large hunting birds.

There was only one explanation.

Ealice had received word from Jasper.

 **oOo**

Edvard calls end to the training session, citing the inevitable turn of the weather - the heavy clouds speak clearly to an imminent downfall of fresh snow - even as he cranes his neck in search of Emett. Carlisle casts a far too perceptive glance over the huddle of those who remain in the courtyard, fixing a lingering gaze on the way that Isobela, Ealice, and he hold themselves. He does not contest Edvard's authority, though, perhaps rightfully assuming that a matter of great importance had come to his attention.

And though Edvard is grateful for Carlisle's discretion, his vexation toward his brother is not cooled.

 _Of all the days to have skipped training._

By God, the missive in Ealice's possession had better not be time-sensitive.

 **oOo**

Fergus is sent off in search of Emett, directed to the kitchen stores and each of his brother's favored hiding spaces in the castle towers. The manservant is happy to hop to the task, perhaps picking up on the tension shivering through the air - tension that has nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with his sister's pensive mood.

"All me to stop by my chambers, sister, and then I shall join you in the east library," he says as he stalks off the training yard, barely reigning in the length of his stride so that his sister, Isobela, and each of their handmaidens may keep up with his speed. He understands that the situation calls for some measure of subtly, a skill of which he is severely lacking.

Edvard does not play these games of court easily. Though he was born into a life of masquerade, it is not a talent he has; his siblings, on the other hand, possess an innate ability to place facades firmly over their behaviors. Emett acts the fool and Ealice acts the entitled princess, leaving Edvard to inherit the title of moody heir to the throne.

But if Edvard is concerned about his own ability to orchestrate a smooth exit and secret meeting with the King, then he has surely underestimated the ability Isobela has to do the same. He has no doubts that she is aware of the situation, had probably been present when the owl arrived, and it shows. She hisses softly to Toree, a constant back-and-forth of wispy noises that, paired with the ashen tone of her complexion, does very little to disguise her unease.

She had not been aware of Quatharn's interest in _her_ , specifically. She did not even know about the missives. He had been keen to keep this information from her for as long as possible, sure in his faith of his father that she would be kept safe in Nordalta and occupied with frivolous things, never the wiser to the role she might play in this game of politics. All for naught, however as Edvard thinks that she knows _now_. Or suspects.

 _Unless she is hiding something_.

He pushes the thought away. Isobela is no liar - and she has no secrets. Except, of course, this secret she now shares with the House of Elric if his suspicions prove correct.

What had that last missive said? _This is the Call - the Progeny shall be mine._

The phrasing, the way it was written, tickles a thought deep in the back of his mind. A memory, perhaps. He cannot think on it though, not as he is busy strolling as casually as possible to his chambers while his sister and Isobela wait for him outside. He discards his training tunic and breeches, tugging on a fine dark version of both, along with a leather doublet and his ornamental sword about his hips. It is chilly enough in the castle that he thinks twice about donning a cloak, but the urgency of the missive is enough to motivate him into ignoring the slight discomfort of frost nipping at his skin. It will be warm enough in the library, anyway.

The east library is small, crammed full of tomes that were used in his lessons as a child - dreadfully dull scraps of parchment sewn together with the tendon of pigs, all on the subject of grains and trade agreements and wars that were settled between Kings over lands and rivers. Nothing of terrible interest, which is why the east library is mostly deserted, save for the tutors that haunt the shelves during the spring and summer months. The only thing interesting about the library, actually, is the hidden panel on the left wall - which leads to a hidden entrance to his father's personal chambers.

Emett is already waiting in the library, cold cuts of meat stuffed into a linen sac, and Edvard silently reminds himself to reward Fergus grandly with an extra few gold coins. The handmaidens are ordered away, Isobela's lingering a touch too long, as if reassuring herself that her lady would be fine in the company of Princes and Princesses. It is long enough that Emett stops stuffing his maw to reckon a lingering look at the swell of the maid's hips.

Edvard suppresses a groan. His brother's libido is the absolute last thing he must contend with on this day. He slaps the back of Emett's head, then marches toward the door, slipping the wooden bar over the lock and sighing deeply. Turning around, he inclines his head to the shelf near the hidden panel, raising his brows meaningfully so that all will remain silent. As he opens the panel, Ealice removes a small, tightly-rolled scroll from the palm of her glove.

The seal is Jasper's.

And there is blood on the paper.

 **oOo**

The first words Ealice speaks when they have entered the tunnel and closed the panel behind them, Emett holding the torch aloft, is a solemn declaration. "It's not Jasper's."

Edvard's brows shoot up. "You sound quite certain."

His sister tilts her head, a slight smile crossing her lips, eyes darting to the ever-quiet girl just at her shoulder. Ealice and Isobela are night and day - in more than one respect - but certainly in appearance. Though they both have the delicate features brought upon by good breeding, the Elric coloring allows Ealice to seep into the darkness, even her eyes shadowed, much like himself and Emett he would assume. Isobela is the opposite, hair and skin pale whispers in the shadowy stone tunnel - and her orchid eyes do glow, a soft backlight that casts them a shade brighter in such darkness. Even the snake wrapped around her throat seems to emit a soft glow, scales glistening with an otherworld quality that is nearly as untouchable as Isobela's.

The augur girl clears her throat delicately. "Toree was quick to soothe our nerves," she says softly and from that Edvard deduces that the snake must know the scent of _Jasper's_ blood. Isobela confirms this as she continues, barely audible. "That blood belongs to no friend of ours."

"Huh."

"What was that, brother?"

Emett rolls his shoulders, the torch in his hand bobbing with the movement, vivid blue fire lit by Isobela's magic steady where a mundane flame might have flickered. "Well…it did sound like the lady meant to imply that the blood was of our enemy."

Isobela's lower lip slips from between the tight grip of her lip, the skin inflamed and abused. She is anxious, he realizes with a start. Truly _anxious_. Her silence stems not from her general sense of serenity but from knowledge that concerns her more than it would concern himself or his siblings.

"Isobela?" he prompts, careful and hushed.

Her pale brow furrows. "The blood is not Jasper's," she utters, pinning him with the suddenness of her direct gaze. "Nor is the blood mundane."

"You did not tell me this," Ealice says, gloved fingers curling tighter around the missive which, he notices, has yet to be opened. He would doubt her certainty about the author of the message if not for Jasper's signature habit of tucking a sprig of mistletoe into the center of the script; the bottom of the stem has browned, but he cannot tell whether from age or blood.

"I was not sure how to," replies Isobela, the hiss of her snake following her words as a clear reminder and an obvious response to the renewed tension flitting through Isobela's body.

"Do you mean to say that this blood is _augur_?" Edvard clarifies.

Isobela nods.

He exhales. Emett curses and Ealice's eyes widen.

It was already concerning that there was blood on the parchment to start - but if the blood is _not_ mundane, then it was an entirely different issue. Jasper had spilt the blood of a magical man in a kingdom that openly uses its augurs to aid legions of knights. That it would be necessary at all to draw augur blood meant that Jasper's mission had been compromised; and if the mission was compromise, then that meant that Jasper had gotten close enough to spy truly important information. There simply wasn't any other logical conclusion.

Edvard assures them that Jasper is still alive - and likely safe on the road back to Nordalta - simply because his missive was sent, but that reassurance does not seem to impact Ealice or Isobela at all. He understands his sister's worry for he is not nearly as ignorant as she might believe and he has seen the way she and Jasper interact. He even approves of the match and is prepared to vouch on Jasper's behalf should there ever come a time when his sister's hand in marriage is sought.

But it takes a horribly long moment for Edvard to realize the source of Isobela's anxiety. Outside of concern for Jasper, who he knows is close to Isobela in the same way that the rest of the troop is, she must be conflicted about the evident injury - or death - of another augur. Her life has not been a happy one, but she feels the same loyalty to her people as Edvard feels to his. It does not matter that this augur is in another kingdom - the augur is still magic. She must be terrified that the same might happen to her.

He does not begrudge her fear, for he would feel the same were he in a similar position. Edvard does not know how to soothe her, however, and so opts to confront the issue at hand.

"This news must reach the King immediately," he decides, pushing at Emett's shoulder to prompt the short travel through the tunnel.

 **oOo**

 _Compromised._

 _Traveling by barge._

 _Protect the orchids and do not light the flame._

· _Jasper_

 **oOo**

The King is not best pleased by the missive - it is too brief to be satisfying, but it is brief for a reason. Though missive sent through owls is generally considered safe given the often prickly disposition of most trained owls, it is best not to take chances with a message that could be intercepted and Jasper had known this. His code is admittedly lacking, too easy to decipher, but that is a skill that will come with experience Edvard is certain; and he is also sure that only those within the circle of knowledge will understand the most important parts of the missive.

The _orchids_ are obviously Isobela.

The _flame_ is an allusion to the reinforcements that the King would surely send to Jasper's location.

From this, Edvard can only conclude that Jasper is safe now, traveling the southern rivers by boat under a hidden identity and in possession of information about Isobela _specifically -_ information that would evidently have to wait until the safe return that the knight has hinted at. The King agrees, as does Emett, though the latter does so with a peculiar glance toward his twin, who has thinned her lips with a terse clench to her jaw. Isobela touches her elbow, leading her closer to the hearth, and Edvard turns his back on his sister and the augur, assured in the knowledge that both are safe.

For now, at least.

"There is naught to be done," decides the King, pulling roughened fingers through his beard. "We must maintain an air of impeccable calm, children. I trust that you all will put your emotions aside and do your duty to this kingdom."

"Of course, Father," Edvard murmurs in agreement.

He is nearly certain that he can deliver on this promise.

 **oOo**

It is his sister's brilliant, _insipid_ recourse to host a luncheon with several sons and daughters of Lords the very next day - her explanation being that this is the perfect rouse to placate the courtiers so that they will not notice the tension mounting around Nordalta. Edvard is absolutely certain that Ealice's true aim is to annoy him to the point of violence or whichever reaction it is that she is aiming for - and she _is_ goading him into some scheme of hers, Elric grey eyes hawkish on his person the moment he enters the Great Hall.

Or perhaps she knows not of how he feels about Isobela being trotted around like a show horse at the Nord springtime faire, though that is admittedly unlikely. Ealice knows everything, especially the things he would rather her be ignorant of.

His _jealousy_ is at the very top of that rather long list.

Edvard is jealous and it is infuriating.

As a Prince - as the First Heir to the House of Elric, the ruling House of the kingdom - Edvard has never had cause to be jealous of anything in his entire life. What he wanted, he was awarded; what goals he had, he was allowed to reach for them. He had never wanted for affection or attention from anyone. Until now. It is so very irksome this feeling of irrational envy at any moment where Isobela's attention is not focused solely on himself. He finds the feeling cumbersome but there is no cure for it; rationale is lost, logic is imperfect, and he has no experience to draw from. If this is what the commons feel everyday over things such as coin, then he suddenly has insight to the needless violence that drives vagabonds to dirty bidding.

Jealousy for a person, however, seems more extreme.

It does not help that each time he sees her, Isobela grows more beautiful - more intriguing. Edvard does not know when his regard for her changed from reluctant ally, thrown together by circumstance and a dogged old woman, into what he can hardly fathom to name. Infatuation. Ardor. Mayhap a lust for _her_ , magic and body and mind. The wellspring of this emotion is too vast to name and so he is stuck, helpless in his plight, struggling to free himself from the clutches of such a vivid distraction.

Edvard feels keenly the breadth of his emotion for Isobela during this afternoon moment, trapped in this expansive stone room with a dozen vapid courtiers with the scent of roasted pork and pickled vegetables wafting through the air. She is the center of attention, as is his sister's intention, dressed in a newly-tailored gown in the deepest shade of violet he has ever seen, the square collar and long sleeves lined with pure white lace. Her hair is pulled away from her face in a complex arrangement of braids that shows off the length of her neck, the gracile slope of her jaw, the curving tip of her ear; and most interestingly, what draws his attention the most, is the curl of Ingar's albino tail around the base of her neck, the cobra's narrow head resting right over his master's heart.

He has not approached her, yet. He desperately wants to but there is something holding him back - it is the knit of her brow as she listens to the son of Lord Newtonn, a lad only a year Edvard's junior who shortens his given name of Mikhail to _Mik_. He is easily the most annoying junior lord he'd ever had the displeasure to lay eyes on, but ladies at the court seem to like him, if only for a laugh. Mikhail of House Newtonn is well on his way to becoming a court jester if anyone would ask Edvard. He is a clown - a clown that is growing awfully comfortable in Isobela's presence.

Mikhail touches Isobela's elbow fleetingly and Edvard's jaw clamps so tightly that his vision nearly goes white. He exhales sharply, the same amount of force that he uses to wield his sword suddenly thrumming through his veins.

"Steady on, brother," says Emett, voice pitched low and clear enough that he almost sounds unrecognizable. His sibling is serious as he clamps a heavy hand on Edvard's shoulder, a rare enough occurrence that Edvard is able to shake himself out of his brief lapse of sanity.

"I've no idea what you mean."

"Of course not." Emett circles around, silver goblet resting between his fingers, still full and untouched just like Edvard's. It seems they are both acting a part on this day. Emett nods his head toward the center of the room, quirking a thick brow with a wry twist to his mouth. "Your displeasure would have nothing at all to do with the results of Lady Helegarth's matchmaking, would it? I heard tell that it was quite a bit of hell for the matchmaker to wrangle an acceptable list of prospects for the Lady Isobela, considering her birthright."

"There is not a single issue with her birthright, either in class or blood," Edvard retorts unthinkingly.

Emett smirks. "Of that I am aware. The girl is a catch and it looks to me that she's waiting to be caught."

"She clearly doesn't want to be over there," he argues with a frown. "The matchmaker could have tried to drum up better prospects, in any case. Mikhail of Newtonn is a scrape from the bottom of the barrel."

"Indeed, a prince would be a better match, would it not?"

"You are putting words in my mouth," Edvard warns.

"It is not as if you make it difficult," his brother counters. "Even now, you cannot draw your eye away. I say, if you do not want competition for her affections, then do not allow competition to go ahead deluding themselves."

Reluctant as he is to admit it, his brother might have a point. He must be feverish to ever consider such a possibility, but then again, Emett's freewheeling ways might have a better insight to the issue of _affection_ , the likes of which Edvard had never once made room for. He is not making room for it now, exactly; rather, it is being wrung from the very core of his being and he is helpless to resist it. He is not sure if he should resist it, either. The political ramifications are undoubtedly attractive, as is the possibility of a match between himself and Isobela serving as a means of protecting her from the Quatharn Kingdom - and that is not even accounting for the mystery of the Crone's cryptic prediction. However, he is not blind to the downsides. If he were to marry an augur - and it would be marriage, for that was the only option available for a Prince - then he could thrust his kingdom into another civil war, which would be unthinkable if his only motivation was his _heart_.

Edvard had never been taught to listen to his heart.

He is not sure that he can.

Deliberately to force the attention off himself, Edvard eyes his brother with interest. "And what have you to say about your mooning at the Lady Isobela's handmaiden. Rosalie of House Hale, yes? Her father a minor lord so beneath the purview of the peerage that his daughter is used as political leverage to keep the King keen on their lands."

Emett grins. "It is a good thing I am _second_ heir, I think, for I do not have to worry about marrying to my exact class. I rather think your brotherly concern is best reserved for our dear sister, whose eye is trained on a certain knight of arguably lower class."

"And were Jasper not a firm favorite in the knighthood and the eyes of the King, there might be some cause of concern," Edvard notes with a hum. Because Emett was right; Ealice's paramour was much more impossible than either of theirs, given that Jasper was an orphan with no discernable pedigree, likely from an another kingdom entirely, and only a knight through sheer force of will. Yet Jasper's knighthood had been granted directly by the King, which meant that Jasper had the favor of the crown. "I imagine that Ealice will have far less trouble than either of our pursuits."

"You admit that there is a pursuit, then."

Edvard suppresses an eye roll as his gaze travels once again to Isobela, his heart thudding behind his rib cage at the mere sight of her. He has not a clue as to when he began to react to her in such a way, but it is exciting in a way - when it isn't irksome, of course. Watching as Mikhail monopolizes Isobela's attention - while his sister looks on and her handmaiden smiles approvingly - Edvard makes a rather rash decision.

Yet he will reflect later on that the events that follow this moment were a foregone conclusion.

* * *

 **A/N: In my experience, boys always come into feelings quicker than girls – and in Edvard's case, he's not as thrown by social interaction as Isobela so he's quick on the uptake. Good for him!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~Rae**


	20. Nineteen: The Pricking of Thumbs

**Nineteen – The Pricking of Thumbs**

Jasper returns to Nordalta in the shrouding fog of early morn a full moon and half cycle after his departure. Isobela is the first to see him staggering from between the thinned forest around the castle and between the village - though that is by chance.

Isobela is practicing magic, learning the spells in her mother's spellbook. It is only by the grace of the Princess' cunning that Isobela's sessions decoding the language of the spells had become a regular occurrence; Ealice and Rosalie had taken to colluding to give Isobela an alibi for her location each morn between the hours prior to dawn and the fast breaking in the Great Hall, where all courtiers were expected to make an appearance for posterity. Given that Ealice was indeed the Princess of the Ruling House, her absences were explained by her well-known habit of dining alone in the royal libraries. Upon discovering that Isobela did not feel comfortable practicing magics in a castle where magic had generally been forbidden after the civil war - and understanding that even with the blessing of the King, Isobela would not abide by violating the rule unless absolutely necessary - the Princess had taken it upon herself to include Isobela in her morning absences from the Great Hall. Or that is what the Princess and Rosalie had taken to telling any who inquired after Isobela's presence.

"The Lady Isobela is breaking fast in the eastern library with Her Highness the Princess Ealice," Rosalie would say, polite and orotund and brooking no further explanations for all of her confidence in the delivery of such false information. Meanwhile, Isobela would have already snuck out of the castle utilizing a passageway shown to her by the Princess that led straight into the forest beyond the castle where she would spend the early hours learning what she had not been taught in childhood. And though Isobela's initial discomfit at prolonged deception with no end in sight had yet to wane, she was thankful that she and her clutch of snakes were afforded the ability to go on as if they had never left the hovel in Sassa.

The mornings were very much like being home.

Still, it was only by chance that Isobela was as far into the forest as she was. While waiting for Jetta and Serpico to return with their hunt and spoils to be shared with Toree and Ingar, Isobela took the larger, more private location as an opportunity to practice the obscure magics of her mother's people. The nomadic augurs had such a queer relationship with magic; there did not seem to be any sort of affiliation that existed between elements and Clans. While the Clan of Solvej had leanings toward fire magic and Isobela's own propensity toward engaging flame was infamous in the village, her mother's people did not seem to observe the same limitations. Indeed, according to the spellbook at least, it seemed as if the nomadic augurs did not _believe_ in limitations. Isobela was hard pressed to understand if these augurs even believed in the Gods. It did not seem likely. There was no humility in these spells, no line between what was and was not humanly possible.

The discovery of this is both thrilling and disturbing. Isobela reads her mother's spellbook and wonders what the Crone might say of such boldness. She wonders what her noble father had thought of such ignobility. For surely the bald absence of humility in the face of unimaginable magic was akin to spitting upon the Gods themselves.

And yet - Isobela cannot put the spellbook down. It is all so very different from what the Crone had taught her, how the Crone had trained her in the healing magics. So foreign from the only magic that Isobela _knew_ outside of instinct. This was magic that made her heart race and her veins burn as she pushed the limit of what her bloodline had graced her with - and while it terrified her, it was also undeniably addictive. Isobela felt so strong in the morning, so in tune with the world around her, that it was enough of a reminder of who she was - what she was - to maintain her sanity in the face of so many confusing mundane customs.

The spell that had captured Isobela on this morn was one that bade the very Earth to speak so that she might commune with the land, perhaps to encourage growth of crops or to create defensive walls in battle. Both were suggestions jotted down in what Isobela believes is her mother's hand and both are so incongruous that she is not sure what to make of the woman her mother must have been. Perhaps similar to Isobela - a nurturer and, more recently, a warrior, however unwitting her rescue of the Elric line had been.

It is as she is trying to connect with the Earth, feeling minute vibrations beneath her feet, that Jetta's alarmed voice reaches her ears, causing Ingar to hiss loudly and flare his hood. Toree tightens around her neck. Isobela peers through the wintry fog, first for her snake and then for the subject her snake is speaking of.

" _Hatchling, it is one of the acceptable cretin, the two-legged that explains,"_ says Jetta, darting into the clearing between the stumps of two felled trees. Jetta's great tail swishes behind her, narrowly dodged by Serpico who slithers in contemplative silence, also darting slit eyes behind him.

Isobela's brows furrow. All of her snakes are beginning to refer to the mundanes in such odd ways. The Princess is now called "the secret one" for reasons that Isobela cannot begin to understand and they do not call Prince Edvard by anything other than the "cedar-scented one" and even that is done grudgingly. " _Who is the two-legged that explains?"_ she asks, and then regrets wasting her breath for in the very next moment she wants to call out his name in concern.

Jasper limps, hand pressed low on his torso where a blood-stained cloth has been wrapped over and beneath his chainmail. He does not wear any other plating, hair lank in his eyes and face dirtied almost beyond recognition. The only way she is able to verify his person is by the discrete withdrawal of Ingar's hood - and Jasper's sigh of relief upon sighting her.

Isobela rushes to his side, fitting the bone of her shoulder beneath his arm to take his weight, her hand already pressed beside his wound. Jasper's fingers fall away from his body, tacky with blood, and unveil the protruding, broken-off haft of an arrow shot cleanly through his side above the hip. The wound is too close for Isobela's comfort, nearly a disembowelment of the most painful order. Although the sight of the wound itself is rather alarming, Isobela does not falter at the prospect of treating it; they had known of spilt blood from the missive and Ealice had privately confided that she thought Jasper would return injured. Isobela had not disagreed. She had never heard tale of any clash of mundane battle that had not ended in bloodshed for both parties.

" _Jetta_ ," she hisses, arcing away from Jasper enough so that her large snake might crawl up his body, expertly squeezing her coils to place pressure on the injury. " _Serpico, Ingar - locate one of the Elric hatchlings."_

" _Aye, speaker -"_

 _"This-one will not fail!"_

Jasper coughs weakly as her snakes dart through the break of trees, scaled bodies disappearing in the early morning frost edging the castle proper. "Lady Isobela," he murmurs, a wry smile kicking the corners of his mouth, a testament to his strength in the face of what she is positive is an infection wreaking havoc on his body. "Am I to take it that I shall have to wait for your services?"

She frowns in consideration, thinking back to her training. "I apologize, but even magic cannot heal a wound so grievous without aid of herb." _Especially not for mundanes, who do not have ambient magic to withstand the toll of unaided healing. I would do more damage than not._

"You would take me to that bothersome court physician?"

"The physician has better stores," she admits, urging them forward with a subtle tug of magic on Jetta's scales, making Jasper light enough for Isobela to guide them out of the forest as quickly as possible. "And I am sure you would appreciate mundane pain relief."

"Milk of poppy."

"Yes."

Jasper's free hand, also dried with days-old blood, gestures limply to his side. "I have had some on the road. Lucky that the Princess had such foresight as to supply me with such a useful token," he comments.

Isobela does not think that luck has much to do with it. She wonders what else the Princess has seen and so is less surprised than she should be to discover Princess Ealice waiting at the back of the castle with anxiety writ clear across her fine features. The Princess darts forward once she catches sight of Jasper. She does not hesitate to move to his other side, fitting herself beneath his arm to help support him, although between Jetta and Isobela's magic towing him along there is little to support. Isobela imagines that the Princess might feel better having an action to perform and says nothing, directing her attention to Serpico and Ingar.

 _"Locate a safe passage,_ " she instructs. " _Private._ "

Ingar is quicker, slipping along the stone walkways quiet as a whisper, using Serpico to relay navigation as the trio shuffle along at a pace that is perhaps a touch too brisk. Isobela directs more magic into Jetta's scales, using her snake as a conduit to move a much larger man - just as she had done for Sir Cygnyus several moons ago. Ealice meets Isobela's eyes over the back of Jasper's bowed head and Isobela does her best to appear reassuring.

But she has never healed a wound such as this. The Crone had instructed her on the theoretical recourse for an injury sustained so close to the bowels, but Isobela's _experience_ in such matters was null; open wounds were ever more complex than artificial scrapes and broken bones. And she suspected that Jasper was in dire shape beneath his soiled clothing and veneer of wry humor at the situation.

The court physician is in residence when the Princess gains entry to the darkened chambers and it is perhaps advantageous that Ealice had placed herself before the injured knight and a barely-tolerated augur for the protests on the lips of the physician halt rather abruptly. He greets the Princess first with confusion, and then with concern.

"It is not me," says Ealice. "Rather, I would have use of your facilities for a minor stretch of time, if you would be so kind."

The court physician shakes his balding head. "My facilities, but not my skills, your Highness? I do not understand-"

"I do not mean to offend you, sir," she interrupts, moving to the side and delicately waving Isobela and Jasper forward, watching with a shrewd gaze as the knight is settled on a low cot with a pained groan, face pale and wane. "But I do not believe that even your highly esteemed skills will save the life of this man."

The physician is not a stupid man. He looks upon Isobela's frantic search of his cupboards with a curled lip. "You do believe that _hers_ will."

"I do."

"Does this girl even know what she is doing?" demands the physician, condescension thick in his tone and deliberate enough that Isobela pauses in her task of gathering herbs into a mortar.

Ealice lifts her chin with imperial confidence. "For the life of this man, I would bargain nothing for your approval. Regardless of whether you wish us here, we will not leave until Sir Jasper is walking under his own power again. Perhaps you could make yourself useful as an assistant to the Lady Isobela."

"I will _not_!"

The Princess turns her head away. "Then leave."

The physician blusters, face red and huffing sounds of displeasure leaving his lips in aborted arguments before he leaves, slamming the chamber doors behind him. As he does, Ealice moves into action, halting at Isobela's elbow and quietly asking for what she might need aid in locating.

"Honey," Isobela replies quietly, mind fully devoted to the task at hand. She hardly notices when the Princess places a jar at her side, only moving to tip the jar enough to bind the herbs together, their scent sticky and sweet and heavy in her nostrils. She reaches for a knife, easily slipping the blade up her wrist and dripping blood into the mortar even as she quickly refines the mixture with crushing turns of the pestle.

By the time she has finished cobbling a herbal conduit together, one that was hopefully strong enough to withstand the introduction of her magic into a mundane body, Ealice has already worked Jasper out of his tunic and leathers, cutting the rusty binding away from his body with admirable efficiency. Jasper appears to have lost consciousness at some point. Isobela does not take it as a good sign.

Toree, who had been silent up to this point, slithers tightly around Isobela's neck, jaws unhinging as the snake pauses, fangs scraping against her skin and ready to pierce at a moment's notice. Isobela looks around, spots the white of Ingar's tail, and holds her hand out. " _You as well_ ," she hisses.

Ingar darts forward, obediently crawling up her body to rest his fangs at Isobela's neck, opposite to Toree.

It is Serpico who protests. _"Speaker, you have not undergone ritual with Ingar-"_

 _"It matters not_ ," Isobela declares briskly _. "Not even Toree's aid will be enough and Ingar's venom has the highest concentration of magic available. I will recover from the poison. I am of the Solvej Clan._ "

Though Serpico does not appear very happy about this decision - and neither does Jetta as she unwinds her thick coils from the wound in Jasper's side, but remains attached to his body in the case that his muscles begin to seize - he holds his tongue.

 _"Find Sirs Edvard and Emett_ ," she orders. _"Quickly."_

Serpico disappears into one of the mouse holes in the stone wall, a grudging flick of his tail the only evidence that he would rather not be elsewhere at this particular moment. His loyalty is nearly as admirable as his obedience; she will have to reward all her snakes with a rare feast when she has a chance. Perhaps Rosalie could locate some of the hunt they are used to eating -

But now is not the time to think of such things. Isobela's preoccupation must be with Jasper and healing him to the best of her abilities. He is her friend. Perhaps her first friend. Jasper had never shied away from her being augur, though he did not ask invasive questions; he had always been kind and reliable and informative. And now he is counting on her.

Isobela examines the wound critically. At some point, Jasper had broken the shaft of the arrow, leaving the end protruding from the tissues right above his hip bone, maybe a hand-span away from the dip of his belly; questing fingers locate the other broken end of the arrow around his back, though this end is broken less cleanly. The break had not been efficient as he could not reach behind himself well enough. All around the haft of the arrow the skin is swollen, hot to the touch and the color of over-ripened berries. A smell emanates from the wound and Isobela knows it is not good. Infection has set in. There is little else for her to do but to proceed, and so she does, bending over Jasper's body in the weak candle light and digging her fingers in the narrow space between dying flesh and wood.

She pulls the broken arrow out of Jasper's body, jolting at the chill that races up her spine. "The arrow is magic-tainted," she realizes, noting the greenwood that is saturated both with Jasper's blood and poison that Isobela immediately recognizes, for the same poison is poised at her throat. Her stomach churns. Jasper had been hit by an arrow bathed in the venom of a magical snake, perhaps even the same breed as Ingar.

"Are you sure?" Ealice's voice is hushed, her mind likely already jumping to the same conclusions as Isobela's.

She nods in response, setting the haft aside.

It does not bode well. Jasper had been traveling in Quatharn and while she knew there were some augurs in that kingdom, she did not realize that they were actively being used as anything else but assassins, such as the one that was sent after the King at the Welcome Feast. To find evidence that augurs are using their skills to aid in weapons-making is unheard of; there is no explanation other than the one that is evident, which is that augurs are employed by the Quatharn kingdom and that they are readily supplying mundanes with magical weaponry. After all, as Isobela knows quite well, augurs would never stoop to the use of mundane bow and arrow. What was the point when magic was so much more efficient?

Again, Isobela pushes these thoughts into a different space in her mind, reaching instead for the mortar and spreading the herbal mixture onto Jasper's skin, sure to press as much of the herbs directly into his wound on both sides. The scent of decay and honey-sweetened herbs incites bile to rise on the back of her tongue, but she forges on, swiping her thumb over the cut in her wrist and marking runes onto Jasper's torso, down the side of his hip, and then up her own forearm.

She is gambling quite a bit at the moment. The moon phase is not right and she had not prepared for this as she had prepared for the bonding of Toree's magic to her own all those months ago - and Ingar's venom is much more potent than Toree's. Isobela has no idea what might happen to her in the coming hours, but she is certain that Jasper will survive if only she allows Ingar's acidic magic to bind itself to her body. The boost in magical resource, the exchange of pain and blood for healing, should be enough -

It should be _enough_.

" _Do it now,_ " she says to her snakes, cupping her palms over Jasper's wound, unflinching as two sets of fangs dig into her neck.

She feels the current of Ingar's magic - a different flavor, more wild than Toree's serenity and so very cold - as soon as it connects to the power of her bloodline. It hurts worse than she might have imagined, far worse than Toree's reintroduction of venom. Still, Isobela draws on her years of being the Cursed Child of Sassa and pants through the pain, murmuring in the tongue of her Gods and willing Jasper's body to _heal_ -

 **oOo**

Isobela does not know when she loses consciousness but the first time she wakes, it is to a strange rocking motion and a familiar sort of warmth beneath her back and her knees. She thinks she is being carried and she looks up - but she is far too bleary-eyed to identify anything other than the gleam of Elric grey eyes.

She thinks she hears her name, but the world twists away in a slip of darkness before she can be sure.

 **oOo**

It becomes immediately obvious upon waking for the second time from a blackened stupor that something had gone horribly wrong. Her first fear is that she had irrevocably harmed Jasper, perhaps even killed him by pumping so much raw magic into his body to heal his wounds from the inside out. She cannot feel her body beyond that haunting thought, beyond the prospect that she might have failed so utterly as a healer.

 _Jasper,_ she thinks morosely - and she hears an odd echo, her own voice again but more distant. Her lips are moving, but she cannot feel them, and that causes her heart to race with more disastrous thoughts. She does not calm down, not even for the soothing hiss of her snakes, until a voice breaks through the panic racing through her mind.

"He's fine, Isobela! Jasper is alive - thanks in no small part to your efforts. Rest, now."

Isobela's hand grows warmer than the rest of her chilled body, a gentle pressure squeezing her fingers together that is fleeting enough that she is sure she has imagined it.

She does not remember this moment for several moons.

 **oOo**

The third time she wakes, her consciousness is rather firm in the insistence that she remain in the living world. She blinks at the elaborate candelabra placed over the post of the bed she has been moved into, absorbing the rich green dye of the bedding piled over her body with confusion. She is not in her chambers, nor is she in the chambers belonging to the physician. The scent of cedar is heavy in the air and it seems to be nighttime, but that is the extent of detail that she is able to detect.

Her body is consumed with so many other sensations, each warring with each other for dominance, that the rush of noise in her ears is a welcome relief. Her limbs vibrate with the rapid tempo of fever-chills. She is so cold, colder than she has ever been in her life. The sense that she has hands and feet is completely lost on her - if she could not see them quivering near her hips, she would be certain that they had fallen off. The parts of her body that she can feel are prickling, a constant oscillation of shivers and sparking magic and hypersensitivity that she cannot - she simply _cannot_.

Isobela very much wishes that she had not woken up.

But for all that her body seems dead-set on slowly shutting down in a race frigid sensation, her mind is sharp as a tack and she knows exactly what is wrong - it is Ingar's venom and it is killing her. Her magic is doing its best without guidance to dominate the magic in Ingar's poisonous bite, but magical venom has a mind of its own and Isobela has been without her mind for too long. The venom has the advantage of her time spent unconscious - and if she lets this go on much longer, she knows that her heart will eventually stop. It would be different if perhaps there was another serpent-speaker available to seize control over the venom of a magical snake, much as she had done with the King's augur assassin - but there is no such person.

She will have to do it herself and she is not sure that she can. All of her energy had gone to healing Jasper and-

"Jasper!" she gasps, lips trembling with stuttered breaths.

A clatter at her side - a heavy object dropped on the ground with a _thud_ \- and then Elric grey eyes beneath a wild toss of black hair are peering down at her. Prince Edvard, dressed in a simple cotton tunic with the laces about the throat undone and sporting a hair-roughened jaw. "Jasper is alive and well," he says, placing his hands on the tops of her shoulders and pressing her deliberately against the down feathers beneath her back. She cannot feel his touch, but she imagines that it is gentle; the concern etched in the furrow of his brow and the tightness of his mouth would suggest nothing less. "It is you who causes worry at the moment, Isobela."

Her eyes close in relief. Jasper is fine and that is one less thought to-

"Isobela!"

Alarmed at the volume of Prince Edvard's voice, her eyes snap open. He is still holding her shoulders down, but this time with more intent. She does not think that much time has passed since her eyes slipped shut, nothing more than a heartbeat or two, but in that time her body's incessant shivers have doubled in intensity. Magic sparks against the Prince's hands, but he doesn't seem to notice. His eyes are only for hers, a fact which flips her heart where it resides in her chest.

"Tell me what must be done," he demands.

She shakes her head, a slow motion back and forth. "N-not a thing y-you can do."

"I refuse to believe that!" he shouts, his vexation thick in his tone, sharpening the constonants of his speech. "When you let those bloody beasts bite you, surely you must have had some sort of plan! My sister has been searching for answers all the night long, but there is _nothing_ and I cannot accept that you are meant to suffer - to die! There must be something!"

Isobela shakes her head again, her mind slipping from her grasp. Prince Edvard's face grows fuzzy in her vision. She exhales, a sigh that carries a single word. "Magic."

"Yes, yes it was magic that did this to you," he agrees tersely.

Her body feels far away, now. She is no longer cold, she does not ache. She is _beyond_ her body, slipping into a different state of being where all around her is swathes of magic and she can sense - she does not know how she knows, but it is nevertheless true - the magic in the world around her, even in this mundane castle. The closest concentrations are her snakes, anxious coils of energy layered over her body; beyond them, two identical beacons, far away and considerably weak; and then the one over her, not as brilliant as the magic she senses in herself, but similar to the magic she carries in her body. More similar than the magics of her snakes.

"Magic," she murmurs, eyes drooping as she floats away. "Need…yours…"

 **oOo**

Isobela does not know it, but something very strange happens the moment her heart begins to stutter in her chest, the very second breath stays caught in her lungs.

Her bloodline, the Clan of Solvej, is dominated by the inundation of poison that was ill-prepared to mingle and for that, the strength of the magic passed down to her by her father, the magic that had been ever-present since childhood - that magic failed.

But Isobela's bloodline is also nomadic - special and mysterious. It was _this_ blood that saved her from the burn of inferno as a babe. It was _this_ blood that the Crone recognized. It was _this_ blood that granted her so many favors that she did not recognize, none the least being her proficiency with wild magic. And it is _this_ blood that recognizes a similar strain hidden in the veins of the First Heir of the House of Elric.

Beyond her control as she tumbles toward the aether, Isobela's magic lunges and latches onto the resonating cadence of magic so very similar to her own. And Edvard loses his footing, falling to his elbows over Isobela's body, his lungs tight and a feeling unlike any other rushing through him.

He turns his head, resting his cheek upon her chilled breast, twisted mouth relaxing at the strong thump of her heart beneath his ear.

 **oOo**

Augurs believe that they understand magic. They believe that if they pay respect to their Gods and the God that protects their Clan that they will be blessed in return with power in their bloodlines. This is true of all augurs, but that does not mean that augurs are correct. All but a very select few augurs have grown ignorant to the wonders of magic. And for all that the nomadic augurs have been without homes, none have ever stopped to ponder why, exactly, that is.

There is a beast with answers sleeping deep within the bowels of mountains hundreds of miles away that senses a meeting of two magical cores - a beast that cracks its maw wide, a facsimile of satisfaction, for all has gone accordingly.

* * *

 **A/N: For whatever reason, this chapter was exceptionally difficult to write – and I didn't even get to the plot point that I originally aimed for. Whatever, this works better than what I'd had planned, anyway. So! Things are happening! Yay!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~Rae**


	21. Twenty: The Trial By Fire

**Twenty - The Trial By Fire**

Her hand was small held within his own - a fragile amalgamation of snow-white skin, bird-light bones, and delicate violet veins twisting too hot beneath the surface, nails faintly shimmering and stained with blood in the candle light. In comparison, his own hand was calloused and rough, darkened by the sun and by a dusting of dark hair over the knuckles and wrist. Strong where hers are weak. Steady where hers are trembling. Alive where hers are withering right before his eyes.

He has held her hand from the moment he placed her upon his bed; and before that, he had held her too-light body within the cage of his arms, her fever-flushed cheek on his shoulder as he marched determinedly to his chambers with his siblings and her snakes at her heels. He had told the twins that his chambers were the logical choice, that Fergus was more discrete than any manservant in the castle, that it only made sense to take her into his own space because of the proximity to the stairwell that they would use to smuggle her through the castle. But he knows that he had chosen his chambers because they were his - and because he did not think that he could bear to be parted from her when he was so sure that each rattle breath to escape her lips would be the last. Even now, as his hand curls around hers, his chest is aching.

Edvard wants to think her foolish for so glibly performing healing magic that was obviously beyond her capabilities, but the anger drains out of him the moment it passes through his mind.

Alas, it is only because he has held her hand for this agonizing moment of eternity that he first realizes something is changing -

And then he is falling over her, barely catching himself over her prone body, gasping for his own breath, eyes riveted on the pallor of her complexion which seems too close to lifelessness for comfort. He chokes on air at the insistent tug above his navel, at the odd tingling scrape that rushes through his limbs, his mind caught up in sensations that are completely foreign to his body. Edvard's eyes are drawn to their clasped hands, her fingers suddenly tight and unyielding within his own, a faint golden flow emanating from where their skin meets -

Beneath his cheek, Isobela's heart thuds in a heavy rhythm.

Her snakes hiss - to his mundane ears, it sounds like relief.

 **oOo**

Isobela wakes with renewed energy and an insistent flush painted across her cheeks, creeping down her neck and around her pointed ears. She meets his gaze for fleeting seconds. It is not enough. Irrationally, he wants to always have those arresting orchid eyes trained upon his person. For him, he feels as if he can do little else _but_ look at her - perhaps to confirm that she is breathing and well.

Edvard asks what had happened right before they both fell into what he can only describe as utter unconsciousness, free of dreams and worry and full only of a resolute silence. He knows they both understand that he is inquiring as to why she is _alive_ when all signs had pointed to her imminent death. Edvard does not want to think about it - an almost unthinkable thought - but he must know. Waking with his ear over her heart demanded an explanation, if for no other reason than to maintain the decorum his station demanded of him.

Her answer is as forthcoming as he thinks she is capable of providing, which is to say that it is not very enlightening at all. He has the distinct sense that she is equally as perplexed as he is as she says, "I believe that I took magic from the only source that was available."

Edvard, seated beside his feather bed where she is still resting, scratches at the facial hair thick on his jaw. He is overdue for a shave, but it does not escape his notice that Isobela tracks the shadow on his cheek with thinly-veiled fascination. His heart thumps in response. It is only his sense of dignity that focuses him, and only then just barely. "And what source was that?"

Isobela frowns. "You, my lord."

 **oOo**

Unfortunately, as the first heir, Edvard does not have the time to spare to pondering just _what_ Isobela had meant by that revelation for he has already put off far too much while she was ill so that he may stay by her side. While he would very much like to discuss what, exactly, she had implied by alluding to _Edvard_ having magic that she was able to source to heal herself - his attention is needed elsewhere. There are many demands on his time, none the least of which is his own father impatiently awaiting news of Jasper's return and the ensuing report that would occur during the audience with the King.

He resolves to think on it later, when his mind is clear of other matters. And, mayhap, when he is less distracted by the girl gingerly removing herself from his bed with the aid of her stone-faced handmaid.

Edvard is the last to arrive to the King's personal chambers, which suits him fine. He stands before his father, shoulder-in-shoulder with Jasper, who looks as hale and hearty as any knight should, in no small part thanks to the efforts of the Lady Isobela. The scene is reminiscent of the one upon his return from the village of Sassa with Isobela in tow - but the tone is heavier, more foreboding given the discussion of espionage that is delivered with stark facts and a detailed accounting of events, including the events that took place once Jasper was back in Nordalta. The King listens with a grave countenance, gaze cast far into the fire, as if watching the scenes play themselves out in the flames.

Perhaps he does. Perhaps the King, too, has magic hidden within him - magic that he had passed down to his son, magic that may even be present in the twins. Edvard did not know. He is not sure if he wants to know. If he considers the implication of a magical ruling family that has shunned the augurs within their kingdom to all reside within a single reservation -

Tales like that are often the cause of war. Edvard does not want war to befall his kingdom and he has faith that his father would not be so warped as to make such a dangerously radical decision. The commoners, even the augurs, call Perseus Elric _the good king_ ; Edvard must believe that their faith is not misplaced. He is slightly shamed at his doubt, but of course he has been raised to examine all possible angles of a mounting problem, to consider all factors, to think critically. He had to consider the possibility of ill-made decisions, no matter how implausible.

Edvard, having heard the details of Jasper's experience over the course of the last day, only tunes back into the debriefing once his father shifts to stand from his fur-upholstered chair with a suddenness of movement that speaks to agitation.

"You mean to say that the Quatharn King has indeed launched offensive operations upon this land?" Perseus demands with flared nostrils. "That indeed the assassination attempt from the apprehended augur was sanctioned - nay, _ordered_ \- by the Quatharnian regime?"

"Sire, I mean to emphasize that Castle Quallarn is populated almost entirely by a legion of rogue augurs from multiple kingdoms to the eastern lands, including your allies of the free men in Gojondel. It seems that Nordaltarn has amassed many enemies among the augurs and that the Quatharn King does little to discourage their ire," Jasper replies smoothly.

"War King Caius has no scruples!" the King declares angrily and rightly so, in Edvard's opinion. It was no secret that the country of Quatharn was one that traded in war rather than peace; he could not think of a single point in his life where he had not heard rumors of tempers rising on the southern shores, much of which was attributed to Caius, a man whose origins were mysterious but whose reputation was infamous. _War King_ is a name that is more polite than how most referred to Caius, especially by Nords. There was a long-standing conflict between the bordering lands that stretched back to a time before Edvard's continental ancestors conquered the land and it did not help that leaders in Quatharn changed as rapidly as the tides. The current man who called himself King had been in power for the majority of Edvard's life; he understands this to be the exception to a rule rather than the standard and has often wondered when Caius's rule would end, if ever.

Now, he wonders if the War King's rule was nearing its final days - or if a new dawn was approaching in his advance toward overthrowing the Elrics and claiming Nordaltarn as a new territory. It was far too early to tell. However, Jasper's reports spoke to a dark time ahead.

"He has been vying for our resources for years," Edvard agrees pensively, tilting his chin to regard the burgeoning spy master to his left. "Is it possible that he plans to make a definitive move to overthrow our House?"

"Possible and probable," says Jasper.

Edvard nods. He agrees; there does not seem any other conclusion to draw, even if certain recent events do not fit quite so snugly with the facts laid before them. He rubs his palm over the mild ache in his head, a certain exhaustion that has gripped him since he'd woken and which he attributes to the episode with Isobela that he was steadfastly _not_ thinking about. Edvard sighs. "But what of the missives from Quatharn -"

The King snorts, turning away from the fire with bemusement, his moods as mercurial as Edvard's. "About the girl, you mean? Whether he is sane or not, whatever interest the War King has in the Lady Isobela is masked by this ruse of agitating the disquiet among augurs, that much is clear."

"I heard nothing to correlate the missives while in the country, Sire, but I believe that you are on the right track. The augurs in Quatharn salivate for blood. They feel that their people in Nordaltarn have been wronged by your rule and seek to correct what they consider crimes to their peoples," Jasper reveals with a frown. "If the rogue augurs are aware of the Quatharnian King's interest in Lady Isobela - in the Progeny - then they are exceptionally quiet about it. There are not even whispers, though of course such quiet ideas may be drowned out by the general vitriol."

The King inclines his head thoughtfully. "Free men create dangerous men, indeed. Chaos thrives in the disquiet of a nation, as does treason. We should all do well to remember that."

Inexplicably chilled by his father's words - for they sound so ominous and entirely too accurate - Edvard's response to the ensuing dismissal falls on deaf ears. He moves toward the chamber doors only when Jasper touches a hand to his shoulder. Edvard bows to his father, brief and distracted, thoroughly unsettled by the last several minutes.

"Let us pray for the peace of men," Jasper says to him once they are removed from the King's presence.

"May God hear you," replies Edvard. "And may He save us all."

 **oOo**

Though he has known her since the day she was born - a squalling, demanding _pink_ creature that grasped his finger with a disarming giggle that would set the tone for their entire relationship - Edvard is still unable to deny his sister her whims. Or rather, he has as of yet been unable to decide upon a method that actually works in quelling Ealice's imperious nature and as such he often finds himself in situations that are, at the very least, loathsome. This is no less true when she accosts him on his way to the midday meal in the Great Hall, which Edvard only planned to attend to keep appearances; he has no appetite and longs only for the comfort of his bed. The linens probably smell of Isobela, of ripened berries and the faintest hint of hazel and rose. The thought is shamefully exciting, heat pooling deep in his torso -

In this one instance, it is probably good that Ealice intercepts him with a slender arm looped through his elbow and a beguiling grin. "I am glad to have found you, brother," she says, steering him away from the staircase to the Great Hall and toward one of the libraries where she often entertained groups.

Craven dread fills him. "And I am not certain that I am glad to have been found, sister."

She raises a brow. "Am I to understand that you would not wish to have a luncheon with the Lady Isobela? Oh, how gravely I am mistaken. Perhaps I have not rested enough. What of you, dearest Edvard? How was your sleep?"

Wincing at the intentional rise in volume at her last question, Edvard clears his throat. His sister would well and truly get what she wants or she would taint the reputation of both her brother and her friend; a gamble that only the Elric Princess would feel confident in bidding. "On second thought," he says tightly. "I find that I am quite famished."

"I thought you might be! I do so love when everything works out."

Edvard levels her with a droll stare, thoroughly unamused by her antics but equally grateful that none had been around to hear her allusions, vague as they may have been. And Edvard knew to expect that his sister had a reason for seeking his company at a function she had thrown together, but he did not guess that it would be an informal gathering of courtiers intent to court for the spring season. She leads him to the room, tugging on his arm forcefully when he plants his feet in the stone in the entryway.

"You said you were hungry," she reminds him with a pout. Then she sighs, looking across the library and the table laden with luncheon fare of meats, cheeses, fruits, and breads. "I suppose Mikhail is hungry enough for the both of you, however…"

Edvard follows her gaze, spine straightening upon spying Mikhail speaking with Isobela, _looming_ over the augur with an arrogant tilt to his thin smile. He scowls at the scene - Isobela does not appear to be very happy in Mikhail's company and Edvard is grimy satisfied to note that Toree leers at the young lord with restrained aggression, maw open just enough for her fangs to glint. Of course, rationally, Edvard knows that Isobela is rarely comfortable in the company of anyone, let alone a man, but this knowledge does not bank the spark of ire in his blood.

Jealousy is a strange emotion.

"I misspoke. Not only am I famished, but I am parched," Edvard proclaims, stalking into the library decisively, blindly bypassing courtiers who vie for his attention by rote. His intent is reserved for one person in the entire room and when she looks up at his approach, his stare does not waver. This is the first time he has seen her properly since the morning - since the night before when he was so sure that she was passing from this world - and he notates the changes in her appearance with finely-concealed shock. If possible, her silver-blonde hair is lighter, longer, smoother than before, her fair skin milky and unblemished, and her eyes a shade brighter, the pupils more narrow and serpentine. Altogether, Isobela is revitalized, dressed in a deep burgundy gown that covers her from neck to wrist but that is tailored close enough that the shape of her slender waifish figure is unhindered by heavy swaths of fabric. Upon sighting him, a touch of color flushes her cheeks and Toree's scaled head dips downward.

Edvard's lips tip upward in response, an unconscious private smile that - had he bothered to pay attention - causes Mikhail of Newtonn to sneer. As it is, even if he had noticed, Edvard would not care. When he is close enough, he bends his torso into a slight bow, a respectful greeting that those with royal blood did not typically observe. Edvard did not care that this was improper, either; as far as he was concerned, Isobela deserved all the respect he had to offer. In saving Jasper, she had also saved an untold amount of lives even at the risk of her own.

He has never known one so noble nor as humble.

"My Lady."

She drops into a curtsy, no longer clumsy with the movement as she accommodates the volume of her skirts, her head tipped forward enough that her hair falls over her shoulder like silk. "My Lord," she greets warmly, straightening so gracefully that Edvard would be hard-pressed to think she had never been to court before that winter.

He clears his throat, which is inexplicably tight. "I am inclined to apologize on behalf of my sister for I do believe that she forgets others may not enjoy these events as much as she," he says.

"It is fine, my Lord," she demurs.

"Aye," Mikhail interjects. "I, for one, am glad such events have become commonplace in this court. It was terribly boring before and the company has never been so enticing."

With some effort, Edvard refrains from clenching his jaw. "Perhaps some company is more enticing than others."

The young lord catches his meaning with a twitch to his cheek. "Sire, I could not agree with you more," he replies just shy of gritting, stepping a tad closer to Isobela as if he had the _right_ to enter her personal space. He flinches when Toree hisses in response, but Isobela places a hand over her serpent's head before there can be any escalation.

Edvard struggles to contain his disappointment. If asked, he would eagerly advocate for Mikhail being on the other end of Toree's venom, even with his new knowledge of what magical bites did to the human body. It is a most uncharitable thought. He cannot find the will to banish it from his mind.

"Have you heard the gossip from the servants?" Mikhail inquires conversationally, then continues without bothering to wait for Edvard's response. "I was just telling Lady Isobela that word in the castle has spread about the physician's unspeakable temper. Apparently, according to the pages, he was seen stomping the lower halls all through the night. Most interesting, would you not agree? One must wonder what has displeased him so…"

Edvard tunes the young lord out, as Mikhail seems content to blather on without any response from a conversing party. It is much more gratifying to put a reason behind Isobela's earlier expression; if this was Mikhail's chosen topic of conversation, it was little wonder that she had seemed to uncomfortable to be on the receiving end. He is sure she feels that she is to blame for the physician's evident mood given recent events. If they were alone, Edvard would attempt to assuage her misplaced guilt, perhaps even promise to speak with the physician to contain the issue before it grew out of hand.

But as it is, they are not alone and it does not seem as though Mikhail intends for them to be left alone any time soon. Because, to Edvard's disbelief, this luncheon is only the first of many events organized over the next several days and Mikhail is worse than a _flea_ \- he continues to turn up, seeking Isobela's attention in a manner not unlike the itching bite of an insect that favored rodents.

Edvard would very much like discourage Mikhail in a blatant way, but half the time he is not in attendance at these functions his sister hosts in the library - he is instead called into meetings in the King's personal chambers and asked to offer council on the situation with the Quatharian War King of which his suggestions, he is aware, are not insightful enough to cool the tension between kingdoms. Indeed, as of yet there does not seem to be an adequate means of handling the issue. Edvard is deeply concerned, more so because of the interest in _the Progeny_ \- in Isobela - that Caius expressed in those missives.

Truth be told, the annoyance of Mikhail's attentions only add to Edvard's vexation about Isobela's safety and as such, it is not surprising at all that he is caught glowering at yet another luncheon days later.

"You are not subtle," says Emett, goblet in hand with a mirthful grin, too entertained by the situation by half.

Edvard draws his eyes away, turning to his brother with a deep exhalation. "I am a Prince," he retorts shortly. "I did not think I had to be."

Emett swallows his wine, seeming to consider this proclamation with undue gravity. "Might I suggest, then, that you be overt in your attentions? For I do not want Isobela to draw the wrong conclusions from your behavior. She is quite skittish, you know."

Edvard does know. And he also knows that his frequently dark expression leveled in her direction does not do him any favors, but he has never been jealous and it is something that he is ill-equipped to handle. That his younger, undisciplined brother finds it appropriate to offer advice that is unmistakably romantic tells Edvard that he truly has not been subtle with the change in his heart. Not an optimal occurrence, honestly.

But as it turns out, jealousy is not the only thing for which his princehood has not prepared him.

 **oOo**

Carlisle is his shadow for the night, an arrangement that Edvard has been familiar with since he'd left boyhood behind but one that was not usually necessary while court was in the winter session and therefore not exposed to foreign dignitaries with potentially lethal intents. And more so, Edvard hadn't _really_ needed Carlisle since he'd become a fully fledged night himself. Part of him rankles at the necessity - and it _is_ necessary in light of the last feast that had attracted such a overwhelmingly large ground of courtiers.

By comparison, the annual Hestehov Feast - which always took place once the first hestehov blooms were spotted tenaciously blooming from thawing grounds still threaded with snow - drew a ground that dwarfed his welcoming feast by quite a large margin. As was tradition set by his grandmother, villagers from Nord were invited into the castle proper to share in the last of the winter reserves. There was scarcely air to breathe in the Great Hall, which was overwarm for the press of human bodies clustered around platters of roasted meats and nutty breads. Edvard would have very much liked to recline near the throne with his father and sister, well away from the suffocation of the crowd, but it was his duty to connect with the people that he would one day rule. If that involved his discomfort, than so be it. He was a crowned Prince; he had learned to expect nothing less.

It did not soothe his nerves, however, to be confronted with reminders of the poverty that struck his people during the tedious winter moons. Many were gaunt in the cheeks, pale and overeager for food, and he knew that in villages further from the castle that the commoners were suffering far worse. He is distinctly reminded of the first time he laid eyes upon Isobela, so full of vitality and frailty, a contradiction that did not become less confusing in the time he had known her.

Reflectively, he wonders if he should be irked that his mind has wandered to her once again when he should be paying attention to other matters that were arguably more important. The point is moot, however; he doesn't seem to be able to stop himself and he has stopped trying. He thinks of her often. It is now a point of fact, just as the sun rises in the day and leaves so the moon may rule the night. His affection for her is just as inevitable.

Could this be what the Crone had meant?

That was another thought that stole his time - Edvard had recently been recalling the cryptic predictions of the Crone, always wondering if _this_ was what she had meant when she had implied a journey for himself and Isobela. He does not think so. The possibility that there is something greater waiting for them is haunting, pervasive.

Edvard sighs quietly, slipping through a dense gaggle of village children who gnaw as often on their lips as they do on succulent meat, Carlisle quick to his heel. He does not know how much time has passed that he has spent rallying conversation for each person to cross his path and call his attention, but he knows that when he began the candles had been much higher and there had been more food. That he has not eaten is a source of discomfort that he pushes away forcefully; others are hungrier than he is; _Isobela_ has been hungrier than he is.

Still, he would like a break, and with that thought in mind, he inclines his chin to the elevated table at the back of the Great Hall, a silent communication to Carlisle that he would be aiming to redirect their course. Carlisle nods back stoically and together they edge toward the outer walls for a reprieve. Edvard pointedly ignores the disdainful glares of the lords and ladies at court, who are predictably resentful of sharing such lauded space with mere commoners. Edvard loathes them; when Nordalta is his, when he is seated on the throne, he would do good to send the lords back to their manners so that he would not have to deal with them. He does not envy his father for being forced to take council from such craven representatives.

It is yet another change to rule that Edvard has silently vowed to make - the first being the release of the augurs from the reservation village of Sassa so that they might reintegrate with the rest of the kingdom. Edvard has been thoroughly shaken by the situation with Quatharn. He has taken great pains to educate himself on the social policies that have given way to such violence and chaos and when he is King, he _will_ correct them. Or he will die trying.

Edvard's progress through the room is slow, frequently delayed by ladies and his people, neither of which he is comfortable brushing off on a whim - though for different reasons. The people deserve his attention; the ladies of court will simply become more troublesome if he is rude, that much he knows from experience. He entertains each of them with diligent attention and it works as he shuffles ever-close to the promise of a beak - until, that is, the shine of bright silver-blonde hair catches his eye.

Isobela is not with his sister nor accompanied by her maid and he only understands why once he glimpses Ingar's white scales weaved through the complex braid holding her hair away from her face, pointed augur ears proudly on display. Of course she does not need additional support with her snake so visible, although he is surprised that there has not been an outcry upon sighting the _snake_ in her _hair_ of all places. He fixes his features, hiding his incredulity as she steps closer, demur and fetching and oddly intent, eyes focused on the young couple that had stopped him minutes before.

"My Lady," he greets with a puzzled frown.

Isobela dips into what is at best a perfunctory curtsy, flicking her eyes to him only once before settling again on the couple - or rather specifically, the woman, who appears to be the same age. He does not understand the reservation in her gaze as he has not known Isobela to be strictly untrustworthy of people who are not men.

"Pardon me, my Lord," she murmurs, stepping forward again, almost stepping in front of him much to his chagrin. In her hair, Ingar uncoils enough to peek around the side of her head, flaring his hood with _menace_. "Tana of the Clan of Pilagbue, what has brought you to this place?"

Edvard's eyes widen - the girl is _augur_? He traces his eyes over her again, searching for any clear indication that she is not mundane, but there does not seem to be any odd about her golden hair or green eyes. Certainly nothing as blatant as Isobela, who seemed to stand taller under the girl's teary gaze, the companion at her side oddly unwilling to meet Isobela's eyes but who is surely another augur that had snuck into the castle.

He exhales heavily, but holds his tongue as the situation plays itself out, recognizing the Isobela is better suited to deal with the issue with subtly. As it is, the tension around their group has warded away people by a margin of a few feet and the entire course of the conversation is made with hushed voices that he is scarce to hear, even as close as he is.

"Isobela of the Clan of Solvej," says the girl, bowing her head forward with respect. "I do not come here lightly, nor do I come here without messages that you must here. But first, I must beg of you forgiveness for my past misdeeds toward your person. I have greatly shamed my Clan with my behavior - we both have -"

"Aye," says the male augur, also dipping his head, long reddish hair slipping forward. "On the behalf of the Clan of Torden and myself in particular, I humbly beg of you forgiveness-"

Isobela's shoulders stiffen. "That is enough," she says more sharply than he has ever heard her speak. Then, softening her tone, she says to the girl, "You are with child."

"I have been so blessed," responds Tana, cupping a hand over her slowly-rounding stomach. "But I have also been so cursed. The child's magic sickens my own."

"The Crone will not heal you?"

"The Crone believed that only you could heal me as only then will the Gods forgive my child the sins of his parents," answers Tana. "I do not dare hope that you will offer such a kindness for all the sins I have paid to you-"

"I am a healer. I will do what I am able."

The male augur seems to wilt in response. Tears spill over Tana's cheeks in apparent relief, the emotional lapse entirely bewildering to Edvard, who is both struck by Isobela's capacity for genuine goodness and for the speed at which his head spins, trying to piece together the background information that is missing from his comprehension of the conversation. "Thank you. May the Gods smile upon your Clan."

"Come," says Isobela stiffly. "I cannot heal you here."

"Wait," Tana says, brow furrowing. "The Crone has given me very specific instructions. There are things you must know first, things which you must understand."

"This is not the proper venue."

"We cannot leave this hall yet."

"Vicco is right," Tana agrees. "Sassa is not how you left it…The Clan of Borr has been cast out because of Stephen's actions on the mountains and it is rumored that they have gone to a neighboring kingdom in hiding. The entire village was up in arms once the Crone delivered her ruling, but there was no arguing on the Clan's behalf. She could not be persuaded - she indicated that there was a reason -"

"There is a reason," Vicco asserts gravely. "I was there that day and what I saw was nothing short of the Gods speaking through you, Isobela of Solvej. Their will is ironclad-"

Edvard's brows raised. Had he not thought something similar, ignorant as he was all those moons ago? How arresting to be on the same wavelength as a man who had attacked Isobela - for now he remembers the hawkish face and the angular height. Anger flares in his chest. Edvard has half a mind to banish both of the augurs immediately from this castle, their messages and pleas be damned. Yet just as the thought passes through his mind, Ingar's hooded head twists around, red eyes blinking at him slowly, and Edvard stays his impulses, oddly feeling as though he has just been admonished.

"We cannot speak of this here," Isobela says, casting her eyes about pointedly.

"And yet we must not leave," says Tana, resolute even as she stands with obvious nerves. She reaches down, digging through a pocket sewn into her simple gown to remove a tightly-rolled scroll, which she hands to Isobela immediately, as if it burns for her to touch. Perhaps it does. "The Crone's instructions were very explicit. She urged you to read this before you left the Hall. She indicated that this was something that she had spoken to you about only once but that it was very important you remember everything she has said about the topic."

Isobela unrolls the parchment, gasping upon reading the runes pressed with quill into the page. "Whatever would I need _this_ for? And why here?"

Vicco shrugs his shoulders. "We do not know."

"Isobela," Edvard says, peering over her shoulder, uncaring of the gazes that are drawn by this action. "What is this?"

But Isobela is not listening to him - her head is cocked at a familiar angle as she listens to words that only she can understand, her eyes unseeing for a long moment before snapping abruptly in the direction of the table that Edvard had been making his way toward for the better part of the night. The King's table. His _father's_ table where - inexplicably - the King has slumped onto his side mere moments after Isobela looks to him. She races forward with little hesitation, pushing through the crowd with a steadfast force that he has seen only once - several months ago during an assassination attempt by a rogue augur.

Edvard does not immediately follow, though it is abundantly clear what has transpired. Instead, he studies these Sassa augurs with a glower, judging their expressions of shock to be genuine before he follows in Isobela's wake. Edvard halts at the scene that greets him, stomach clenching with anxiety as she spies Isobela's hands checking for signs of life, as his father's glassy gaze clouds and his skin rapidly blanches. His siblings clutch at each other, Emett offering Ealice protection from a threat that has gone unnoticed until now. Once again, there is a goblet of mulled wine knocked over, red staining the stone and wood, appearing eerily like blood. Carlisle reaches the table just moments after he does, but unlike Edvard he turns around and shouts orders to the other knights in attendance, urging them to contain the crowd.

"No soul leaves!" he thunders. "The King has been poisoned!"

* * *

 **A/N: So, if this were a book-book, this is probably where I'd end it so that the sequel opened into a bunch of drama and if I get to publish this one, that's exactly what I'll do provided that the word count for the second half measures up right.**

 **Anyway! Things happened here! Did you get them all?**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~Rae**


	22. Twenty One: The Price of Magic

**Twenty-One - The Price of Magic**

The beginning of the end starts, as it is destined, with travesty.

As she digs yet another shallow grave just beyond the stone fortress of Nordalta, Emidris knows that she has failed. The carefully folded linen in her shaking hands is stained with her moon blood and it is undeniable evidence that she has once again let down her kingdom and her husband. There are two other lumps of earth lined against the castle walls, shadowed by the great forest beneath the hill, that speak to just how grave her situation is.

Emidris is barren.

Emidris is a Princess of the Ruling House, married into the House of Elric by the King's young nephew, Perseus, for the sole purpose of providing the House an heir for the future throne. As the King had expressed no interest in taking a wife - he seemed to be far too concerned in the roiling politics plaguing the land and listening to the poisonous whispers of paranoid advisors who fed into the distrust of the augurs - it had been made clear to Emidris that her _only_ purpose in life was to secure the bloodline of the House.

And yet, there are now three tiny memorials just beyond the gates of the castle gardens that betray her inability to carry a child beyond the space of a moon cycle.

Emidris muffles her sobs with the back of her hand as she scrapes dirt over the linen masking her unborn child from sight, chest tight with anxiety and her mind blank under the duress of her grief. She has come to love her husband, for Perseus is fair and good and above all else _kind_ , but she has not told him of these struggles, for they are a woman's worry to carry for burden. And - though it pained her to even think it true - she has begun to fear that it is the differences in their heritages that have become impossible to overcome for this venture.

Emidris is of the Nordaltarn land, born into the family of a tradesman, and is indisputably from this kingdom for as long as her family line can be traced backward. Perseus, on the other hand, hails from the continent, as is evidenced by the darkness of his hair and the swarthiness of his complexion, both of which are not natural this far north, nor at all on these islands. The House of Elric had taken rule over the kingdom, first by force and then by loyalty, and Emidris would be the first to pledge herself to the House. In fact, she had in her marriage to the King's nephew -

But Emidris is barren and the House of Elric is in need of another heir.

She presses her trembling palms over the moist dirt that serves as an unmarked grave and sighs weakly. What might happen to her? Loathe as she is to even acknowledge it, the King has begun to seem _unstable_. She doesn't doubt for a moment that should her barren womb come to light, it would spell nothing but horror for her and her family. There would be nothing Perseus could do to save her and that is even if he would be so inclined once he learns of her failures.

Her worst fears, she knows, will soon become reality. The servants have begun to whisper and it is impossible that Emidris has been able to hide _all_ evidence from her lady maids and - and Perseus, though a _man_ , is not entirely ignorant.

After a year of their marriage, Emidris should have _something_ to show for it.

She casts her dark eyes to the small bumps of new growth, ranging from fully-covered in clovers and deteriorating to the mound of dirt beneath her palms, and her tears fall anew. She does not understand why her womb will not shelter new life, but then again, perhaps it is not so surprising. Her late mother _had_ passed away in childbirth, along with Emidris' still-born brother when Emidris was young yet. Had the struggle in motherhood been passed to Emidris, as well?

It would seem so.

Emidris bows her neck, touching her forehead to the dirt to allow her tears to soak into the earth, her shoulders heaving in great shivering sobs that she tries to muffle with the application of her teeth to her lips. A futile pursuit, surely, but Emidris may only mourn in private and she is only able to find privacy beyond the castle walls. If only she could just -

"Such wretched bereavement and from one so rich with the vitality of life," says a voice quite suddenly and Emidris gasps in shock, twisting around and tumbling onto the rear of her fine dress with eyes wide in shock, a demand on the tip of her tongue that dies the second she spots the figure stepping from the mists of the forest. "Tell me, lady, what has crushed your heart so?"

Emidris is unable to answer, such is the gravity of her surprise at encountering such a figure. A woman, rather, though that is hardly accurate to capture the presence still striding gracefully toward her. Female, certainly, with hair so pale it is purely white, like the first snows of winter, and an arrestingly youthful face with serene, blisteringly persimmon eyes. _An augur_ , she thinks, and then frowns, taking in the ethereal quality of the being before her and the timeless wisdom resting in the gaze that has stopped on her with such curiosity. _Or something like an augur_.

Something that is not of this realm, Emidris is nearly certain.

"You would be quite right, lady," says the being, smiling widely as Emidris gasps again. "You have quite a fine mind."

Emidris swallows heavily at the implication that her thoughts had been plucked right from her head, like a child pulling apart daisies for amusement. "T-thank you."

Then, the being frowns. "It is a shame that your heart is shadowed so completely…although, yes, now it is clear. Oh, lady, allow me to share in your grief. Such a terrible struggle you have shouldered."

Unwittingly, Emidris' hands fall to her flat stomach, her chest tightening as if the air is trapped within her lungs. She does not know what to do. There are protocols that members of the House of Elric are expected to observe in the face of augurs and while Perseus does not agree with the decree set forth by the King, it was not in her nature to outrightly defy the orders of her betters. Emidris should not be hesitating. She should be calling for guards. She should -

"You may call me Inume."

Emidris starts, quiet in her staring as Inume moves to kneel at her side, passing a bone-white hand over the three mounds that represent the unlived lives of her children. She bites back the urge to defend these unmarked graves, teeth cutting into her cheeks. Inume murmurs something in the augur tongue and as the melody moves forth from her mouth, so too does three strong sprigs of new-leafed flowers, each as brilliantly white as noon sun breaking over the capped mountains in the distance.

"They shall be remembered, lady, so do not fret," says Inume soothingly.

Emidris speaks without thinking, her grief loosening her tongue more than shock at interacting so peaceably with an augur ever could have done. "There is little I may do save for fretting," she mutters, emotion thick in her throat as she goes to explain her meaning further -

But Inume has already taken the thoughts right from her mind and the ethereal woman frowns. "Truly, do you long for a child so much?"

"Yes."

Inume tilts her head, oddly bird-like and unblinking as she assesses Emidris, who is caught frozen like a hare before the hunter. The moment stretches onward, both weightless and fraught with tension, and then Inume says, "There is a solution to your troubles, lady, but the price is very steep. Magic always has a price."

Emidris' heart soars. "You would help me?"

"As I said, lady, my help is not without a cost," Inume warns.

"I care not," Emidris is quick to answer, hands still pressed to her empty womb. "Please, I will give anything."

Inume's lips twitch into a vague smile that is nearly as warm as it is chilling. "Even your life?"

The answer, of course, is yes. Emidris is willing to pay any price so long as she might give birth to the heir of the House of Elric, so that she might honor her husband and her kingdom. It matters not that she must undergo a series of secret meetings with Inume in the forest beyond the castle, or that those meetings feature vile concoctions tipped down her throat so that Inume might fortify her body for the burden of motherhood. It matters even less when Emidis is informed of the shocking price of this magic that Inume is working - magic that is quite frankly beyond any capabilities of other augurs.

Emidris may have a child, but in creating life she must donate half of her own lifespan to the child. And the child in question would be born of magic - still of her blood, still of Elric blood, but also of the magic of the very earth on which the kingdom resides.

It is worth the sacrifice, she believes.

 **oOo**

The mystery of Inume is never solved, as far as Emidris is concerned. She makes the effort to ask, of course, making the sort of subtle inquiries that she has found appropriate for the political playing of court. But her efforts are for naught, as Inume will not reveal anything of actual import.

She dances around revealing her age, agile in her deflection of curiosities that seem nearly passe. As far as Emidris can reckon, Inume is ageless, part of a traveling group of augurs who deign themselves nomads yet she is not truly part of their herd _. A Gatekeeper_ is all Inume will say and that only leaves Emidris with more questions.

Still, she considers Inume to be a friend, albeit a strange one, and she looks forward to the rare days that she will spot the flash of Inume's milky skin from the castle keep. Those days grow more and more rare as it becomes obvious that Emidris is with child.

Perhaps Inume does not feel the need to visit now that it is clear that _this_ babe will be born safely.

Emidris does not know. She is simply overwhelmingly grateful that Inume had stumbled across her that auspicious day, for such a meeting had very likely saved Emidris' life, her marriage, and the future of the Nordaltarn kingdom.

It never occurs to Emidris that her fateful meeting with Inume had been anything but coincidence.

 **oOo**

"Edvard of House Elric, the first of his name, the Second Heir of the Nordaltarn throne, son of Prince Perseus of the House of Elric …."

Emidris suppresses a sigh as the squire continues with the bloviated announcement of her son's full parentage, including land titles that date back at least as far as the war-won possessions of the first Elric to walk this kingdom. It is, of course, quite the impressive list, but Emidris is far more concerned with the way her infant son fusses in her arms, hungry and tired. Subtly, she raises her eyes to meet her husbands, but finds his gaze locked onto his Uncle, who has also begun to fuss in his own way.

King Arcturus of the House of Elric is not best pleased that a _child_ has taken so much attention.

He is a mad king, as far as Emidris can opine, and she is hard-pressed not to feel terror for her newborn son. In the lands from which the Elrics hailed, she has learned that it is not unheard of for displeased rulers to commit infanticide.

She does not what her Edvard to be in that sort of danger. Not when she had sacrificed _so much_ to bring him into this world - and not when that sacrifice was a secret to all, even her husband. None must ever know that Edvard was born of magic, that he likely has magic swimming through his veins even if his eyes are the same hard-chip slate as the rest of the Elric House.

Emidris settles Edvard closer to her breast, shushing him under her breath as she casts her eyes to the eagerly attentive crowd of the court, half of which gaze at the King with zeal and the other half which stare at Edvard with hope and wonderment. Discomfited by the notion that her child would one day rule all of these people, Emidris sweeps her gaze further out -

White hair, a youthful face, keen persimmon eyes flittering in the light of the candelabras. Emidris stiffens, breath cold in her lungs, as she locks eyes with Inume, who has fit herself nicely into the furthest corner of the room and smiles at the court in front of her, as if amused by the ways of mortals. Which is likely very true, for all that Emidris has come to understand of her friend.

Inume's smile widens when it becomes clear that Emidris has spotted her. She waves, nothing more than a flutter of her fingers - the same fingers that had cast golden-white magic over Emidris' womb not ten moons previous.

Emidris cannot comprehend why or how Inume had made it so far into the castle, though surely there _must_ have been a purpose. Her comprehension is further thwarted by the fact that Inume seems to disappear right in the shadows the second Emidris' attention is drawn away by the priest and the healers seeking to baptize her child in the oils of the single God so worshipped by the House of Elric and indeed many of the higher-born nobles in Nordaltarn. She carefully passes Edvard to the priest, watching hawkishly as he performs the sacrament ritual, and then gratefully taking possession of her son once his wee head has been dipped in clove water.

She does not see Inume again that night, but she knows better than to doubt her own vision. The augur - the Gatekeeper - the woman had been there. And Inume always had a purpose, of that much Emidris was certain.

 **oOo**

Emidris hears the familiar voice just outside the nursery and knows instantly that it is not a stroke of luck that her husband had chosen to accompany her this evening to spend time with Edvard away from wet nurses and prying eyes. She swiftly closes her hand over the top of Perseus' before he is able to reach for the dagger sheathed in his belt; he makes his displeasure known with a frosty glare that Emidris does her best to ignore as she hastens to the nursery, opening and closing the door behind them as quickly as possible.

"Little Prince, such a weight is on your shoulders," Inume sing-songs, smiling as Edvard closes his hand over the bone-white finger held aloft over his head. "A wise Seer has told me much about your life, Little Prince, and I must confess that you have quite an interesting journey ahead of you…"

"What is the meaning of this?" demands Perseus once it becomes apparent that Inume is very clearly _not_ a wet nurse and that she is very much not alone.

Emidris blinks once at the silent man standing in the middle of the room, somewhat alarmed by his tall stature and the array of throwing knives shoved into his belt, all without sheaths and each glinting dangerously. He is fair-haired and fair-faced, possessing a rather serious disposition that does not seem quick to joy nor quick to anger. She has never seen this man before, let alone in the company of Inume. Although, given that it had been over two summers since she last saw Inume, she supposes it is possible that her friend had allied with a companion in that time.

Or, as she will come to learn, a husband.

"We are Haldruil and Inume of the Clan of Solvej, my Lord and Lady," Inume introduces breezily as she directs her attention away from Edvard. "My husband and I come bearing news from the south, if we might bend your ears."

"How did you get into the castle? Tell me right this instant," Perseus commands, though it comes out with less authority than usual, evidence that he is thrown by this encounter. "And step away from my son, lest I feel the urge to correct your behavior with the thirst of my blade."

Emidris goes to open her mouth to explain, to deescalate the situation, but her teeth click together when Inume shoots her a sharp glance. Oh. Yes, of course. It wouldn't do at all to reveal that she already knows Inume, for that would lead to questions that Emidris would not answer even under threat of death. Inume's wisdom in concealing their acquaintance is brilliant, if not somewhat uncomfortable. Emidris will have to mind her tongue.

"I must petition you, my Lord, to cease your idle threats to my wife," says Haldruil, though he makes no move to touch the knifes on his person. He is of a Clan, though, and even with as little as Emidris understands of magic, she's sure that he would not need those knifes to cause Perseus lasting damage, such is the way he holds himself. Haldruil is the most obvious warrior she has ever seen, save exception for _possible_ Ander, her husband's sole personal guard.

Inume had married a warrior augur? The notion is almost as difficult to reconcile as the idea that Inume had married at all. After all, she had once told Emidris that Gatekeepers did not marry, for it was a fool's errand to love a mortal - but something had changed. Emidris is in no position to query, but she dearly wants to know the answers to this question. This entire situation feels rather _precarious_.

Her supposition is correct, for this is the night that Perseus of House Elric makes an alliance with the Clan of Solvej to halt the civil war brewing in Nordaltarn by any means necessary.

Including sacrificing the life of the Mad King.

 **oOo**

Inume visits Emidris for the last time once the civil war has calmed with the signing of the treaty with the augur clans and the announcement of Perseus' decree that all augurs within Nordaltarn would reside in the southernmost village of Sassa, home of the Clan of Solvej.

Inume is not herself that evening. She observes Emidris' pregnancy with a hard stare, cruelly and needlessly reminding Emidris of the cost of such magic. "Ever is the price, you have surely damned yourself to death twice over," she declares as she stalks around the Queen's chambers. "Foolish girl."

Emidris eyes the way in which Inume's hands have rested over her flat belly, an unconscious gesture that is all the more telling for the tension pinching at the corners of Inume's oddly colored eyes. "I have not been the only foolish one," she observes calmly, for it is the only thing she can do. When she fell pregnant this time and the babe took to her womb, she had known what the cost would be, what the birth of this child would demand in exchange. She does not require a reminder.

Inume's laugh is derisive. "Yes, but my baby will not kill me as forthrightly as yours will kill you."

Emidris bites her lip. "I am afraid I do not understand your meaning, my friend."

A hard gesture of a hand, then a withering sigh. "I have told you once that it is folly for Gatekeepers to entertain marriage, as surely mortal hearts are not as hardy as our own, and that is certainly true, though not for the reason you might expect. You see, Gatekeepers are everlasting, doomed to outlive their loves - unless -" Inume stops, her breath catching. "Unless a child is beget from the union."

Perhaps it is because Emidris is a mere mundane mortal, but she cannot quite touch upon the vastness of Inume's worry. She shakes her head, placing down the comb that she had been pulling through her hair. "Is it not fortuitous, then, that this child has ensured you will not suffer the pain of outliving Haldruil?"

"This child has made me _mortal_ ," Inume clarifies with a faint sneer that does not fully cover the blatant fear now floating freely from her erratic pacing. "Worse yet, this child will not understand what she is until the Great One uncoils from His long sleep at the turning of the tide- No, no. I should not be telling this to you."

"Inume…"

Inume straightens her shoulders. "It matters not, for this is not the reason I have come to you this night," she mutters, opening her cloak to pull out of small, squat book that even to Emidris seems to reek of magic. "My Lady, I beseech you to place this book on the shelves of your library so that one day, when my daughter walks the stone halls of this castle, she might find this tome and understand what will become of her."

Gingerly, Emidris takes the book, unsettled by the way the cover hums with warning beneath her palms, as if a swarm of bees have been trapped within the pages. "I will, of course, do as you ask," she says, placing the book of magic aside. "But would it not be better to show your daughter this book yourself?"

Inume is silent for a long moment, persimmon eyes unseeing even though she stares directly at the Queen of Nordalta. Then, with a cloudy gaze, she murmurs, "It would not be safe in my possession. Not any longer."

It is the last time she sees Inume, for Emidris dies in childbirth, readily paying the price of magic in exchange for the lives of her twin infants. She lives only long enough to name them.

Emidris does not live long enough to learn that only a few moons later, Inume and the Clan of Solvej parish in a blaze set by mundane men - save for a single babe with eyes of orchids and magic that is forever ties to the earth itself.

 **A/N: And I'm back to this story! Hoping for weekly updates as we move into a sort of undefined Part Two - or, I guess, sequel - of SERPENTINE. Going to be putting all of my energy into finishing this story, but the chapters will be about as rough as they have been. This is, after all, a rough draft of the thing I'm polishing up for publication - although, the benefit of this is that there will be enough changes that I probably (90%) won't ever pull this version offline.**

 **Anyway, this is the first and last time we'll be hearing from Emidris and Inume. Think of this as like a prologue of sorts for Part Two, but also a clarification for some of the mystery that's arisen. I would like to point out that Nordaltarn is the kingdom, Nordalta is the castlekeep, and Nord is the village just below. Debating on whether or not to just say "fuck it" and make my own language, but I figure it's not necessary? IDK. If anyone was wondering, "nord" means "north" in this story. Make of that what you will.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


End file.
